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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27331813">wild and fluorescent (come home to my heart)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/overnights/pseuds/overnights'>overnights</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>RWBY</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, infinite playlist au, not a soulmate au but they’re soulmates, side weiss/pyrrha</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 23:15:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>18,794</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27331813</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/overnights/pseuds/overnights</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a kind of electricity to this night, hot and simmering and filled with promise. It’s everywhere; in the secret smiles passing between Weiss and Pyrrha, in the rolling lines of music pushing through the darkened room, and especially in the heat of Yang’s gaze, lilac burning like starlight against Blake’s skin. </p><p>Yang feels like pure lightning, and Blake welcomes the current with outstretched arms.</p><p> </p><p>[Yang, Blake, and an infinite night.]</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Blake Belladonna/Yang Xiao Long, Pyrrha Nikos/Weiss Schnee</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>103</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>wild and fluorescent (come home to my heart)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>posting this fic in honor of it being rwby v8 month! it's loosely based on the book nick and norah's infinite playlist. title is from supercut by lorde and fic playlist is <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2lfO7NAjANw3PfwCvQNuvJ?si=UKZUWeyaQWCmVNbSCZyhdA">here</a>  </p><p>(if you see a bunch of subtle taylor swift references, just know that it's because i wrote this fic in a haze of folklore brainrot. thank you for your understanding)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="small">You take delight not in a city's seven or seventy wonders,<br/>
but in the answer it gives to a question of yours.<br/>
<br/>
- Italo Calvino, from <em>Invisible Cities</em></span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Blake is standing in the center of a hurricane.</p><p>The room is tilting around her, hazy with heat and light and sound, the low rush of adrenaline spiking through the crowd as the band onstage rips through chords like they’re fighting through music. The voice singing is one that she vaguely recognizes from a static-y college radio station, and she’s shouting along even though she barely knows the lyrics, letting the strangers around her push and pull like the tides, and she is utterly lost in the moment. </p><p>“This is so good,” Weiss yells next to her. Blake turns to look at her best friend; makeup slightly smeared, outfit slightly disheveled, polished demeanor worn at the edges from four shots of tequila, having the time of her life.</p><p>Just like Blake is.</p><p>(Just like Blake should be.)</p><p>“Yeah man, these guys are fucking amazing,” the guy next to them shouts, probably thinking that Weiss was talking to him. Weiss rolls her eyes, shoves him away. Blake turns back to the stage. There’s three girls up there, and she takes them in as well as she can in this loud, heavy air.</p><p>A red-haired girl behind the drums, her top cut low and laced with leather; a short brunette at the microphone, scream-singing her heart out; a blonde girl with a guitar, her hair flashing gold under the strobe lights, her fingers on the strings just one more blur in a room that’s never quite been in focus.</p><p>Blake’s eyes catch on the blonde girl, and she can’t look away.</p><p>The song ends with a flourish, and the band starts dismantling their equipment, breaking it down, packing it away. There’s a brief drop in the noise level as they make room for the next band, and Blake turns towards the bar with a half-hearted notion of getting another drink, and that’s when she sees him.</p><p>Their eyes haven’t met yet, but everything in Blake is shrinking inside herself, pushing her down. He’s not supposed to be here, not supposed to be anywhere near here, not supposed to be anywhere but halfway across the ocean and a million miles from Blake.</p><p>“Oh, fuck,” she says out loud, tossing the swear into the ocean of noise surrounding her. She looks for Weiss, but her best friend has pushed towards the stage, probably in hopes of talking to the redheaded girl. She’s always had a thing for gingers.</p><p>“Fuck,” Blake says again, and looks around for an escape. Weiss is near the stage, the brunette and the redhead are still packing their equipment, but the blonde is now nowhere to be seen.</p><p>Someone brushes against her back with a muttered “Sorry,” and Blake whirls on them, ready to push them away or hide behind them - she hasn’t decided which is the better course of action - but then she sees who it is.</p><p>The blonde girl from the band.</p><p>She’s taller than Blake by at least four inches and drenched in a kind of confidence that surrounds her like a tangible forcefield, gliding through the crowd like none of them can hold her, graciously nodding in response to murmured praise as she moves effortlessly towards the bar. Her black jeans are ripped almost to shreds, the leather jacket draped around her shoulders is perfectly battered, and her steel-toed boots look to be vintage. </p><p>In a word, she seems untouchable. </p><p>Blake normally wouldn’t bother talking to a girl like this, a girl who seems badass and punk rock and wouldn’t be caught dead on mainstream radio singing watered-down bubblegum lyrics about love at first sight, but Adam looks her way, and <em> fuck </em>. He’s seen her. </p><p>And in a split-second impulse decision, a moment of sheer panic, Blake doesn’t let the blonde girl pass her by. Instead, she grabs her by the sleeve of her way-too-cool jacket and stops her in her tracks.</p><p>“Yeah?” the girl yells over the crowd, eyes turning to Blake, and Blake is suddenly lost in a sea of lilac. </p><p>She shakes her head, hard, stars flying in front of her vision - stars and misty shades of purple, blending like the cosmos - and taps the girl’s shoulder.</p><p>“I’m sorry if this is weird,” Blake shouts back. “But would you mind being my girlfriend for the next five minutes?”</p><p>The girl blinks, clearly confused, and Blake’s stomach drops like a free-falling coaster car; Adam’s onto her now, pushing towards her, his face twisted into a familiar mask of anger, and she’s running out of time.</p><p>She’s just about to throw caution to the winds and try to shove her way out of this club, crowds and hipsters and hot blonde girls be damned, when the girl in front of her seems to come to a conclusion.</p><p>“Works for me,” she says, and Adam is ten feet away from them when the blonde girl leans down, wraps one arm around Blake’s waist, and kisses her.</p><p>For a moment, Blake forgets all about Adam, forgets about narrowed eyes and clenched fists and angry words slicing through her like knives, because this girl - </p><p>This girl kisses like the world is ending. </p><p>She pulls Blake in until their bodies are flush, Blake pressed against her, becoming more one person than two. Her tongue sweeps over Blake’s bottom lip and Blake melts into it, feels like she’s dissolving on this stranger’s lips, wanting nothing more than to keep kissing her until the sun burns out.</p><p>And below the rush of adrenaline and the frenzy of lips and hands and skin, there’s a sense of rightness, of familiarity. It’s as if Blake has walked this road before, knows every twist and turn even before she comes to it, knows where it’s leading. </p><p>Then there’s a hand on her shoulder, rough and unshakeable, and Blake’s insides freeze over. </p><p>“What the fuck,” Adam yells, pulling her away from Yang. “What the <em> fuck </em>.” </p><p>Blake looks up at him, her entire body a flash of white-hot fear, every molecule in her body pulling away from him. A fight or flight response in which fighting was never truly a viable option.</p><p>Adam snarls, his hand descending again, and Blake cringes before she can stop herself, her eyes screwing shut, but the burning weight of his touch never comes.</p><p>Blake opens her eyes again to see the blonde girl grabbing Adam’s wrist, twisting his arm like he’s nothing but a rag doll. </p><p>“Don’t fucking touch her,” the girl says, and it’s a low, dangerous tone that slices through the chatter of the crowd like a hot wire. Blake shivers, feeling the air around her crackle like ozone. </p><p>“Who the fuck are you?” Adam asks, trying to pull his arm away. The girl just twists harder.</p><p>“I’m her girlfriend,” she says, “and you’re the guy who’s about to step the fuck away from us before I deck you right here on the dance floor.” </p><p>Blake bites her lip. Mirrorball is a club with a no-fighting policy, but this girl doesn’t look like one to follow the rules. </p><p>Adam growls, his teeth flashing sharp and white against the dark of the club, but the girl doesn’t give an inch. She yanks his arm hard enough to make him yelp, then drops him away like yesterday’s trash. </p><p>“Stay away from her,” the girl says, towering over him, Adam looking smaller than Blake has ever seen him. “Or you’ll have to deal with me.”</p><p>Adam’s eyes flick to Blake’s, searing an unspoken threat into them, and then he turns away with a curse and disappears into the crowd.</p><p>Blake breathes for the first time in seven minutes.</p><p>“Thank you,” she says to the girl, her voice coming out quieter than she intended.</p><p>“What?” the girl shouts back. </p><p>“<em> Thank you, </em>” Blake yells, standing on tiptoe to push the words into the girl’s ear, and a smile breaks over the girl’s face. </p><p>“Any time,” she shouts back. And then, after a beat, “Jesus Christ, I hope that wasn’t your boyfriend.”</p><p>“Ex-boyfriend,” Blake says. “Ex - ” She pauses, her feeling of wild untethered joy disappearing like fool’s gold between her fingers. “It’s a long story.” </p><p>(It’s not a long story, really. It’s just a painful one.)</p><p>The blonde girl looks at her with concern, and Blake takes this moment to realize that she’s not pretty, not hot, but drop-dead gorgeous; hair a sea of golden waves, mouth a crooked red smile, eyes a shade of lilac that Blake can’t describe as anything other than <em> magic </em>. </p><p>She wonders if they still have one or two of those five minutes left, and if this girl would be willing to let her finish it out. Blake bets she would; she doesn’t look like the kind of person to do things by halves.</p><p>But Adam is still on her mind, and the room is too dark all of a sudden, and all Blake really wants to do is find her way out of this burnt-out club and remember how to breathe. </p><p>“I should probably - ” she says, not knowing how exactly to finish the sentence, and then a distraction appears in the form of Weiss and the two other girls from the stage. </p><p>“Blake,” Weiss shouts, her voice loud and unrestrained. “Look who I met.” </p><p>There’s a screech of feedback from the stage, where the next band is setting up; Blake winces as the harsh noise grates against her ears. Yang doesn’t bat an eye.</p><p>“Hey,” says the redheaded girl. “I’m Pyrrha.” </p><p>“I’m Ruby!” says the brunette girl. She’s short - several inches shorter than Blake - and bouncing around like she’s recently taken five shots of espresso. </p><p>Blake turns towards the blonde girl, willing her to introduce herself too. </p><p>“Yang,” the girl says, winking at her, and Blake feels like a supernova. Everything about Yang is hypnotizing, enchanting, from her name to her eyes to the curve of her neck as she tips her head to one side. Blake both wants to know her, and wants to know why it feels like she already does. </p><p>Weiss pokes Blake in the chest. “I found the hot drummer, and - wait, oh my god. You were making out with Yang!” She looks around drunkenly before confiding in Blake, “She’s really hot, but Pyrrha’s hotter.” </p><p>Blake is caught between amusement at the sight of her normally prim and proper friend acting like a wasted idiot, and lingering fear from the encounter with Adam.</p><p>“Adam’s here,” she says, basically talking into Weiss’s ear because she doesn’t want the others to hear. “Or at least, he was.”</p><p>That’s enough to sober Weiss up a little, her ice-blue eyes clearing and focusing on Blake with the intensity that she carries like the legacy of her family name. “Are you okay?” </p><p>“I think so. I don’t know.” Blake rests a hand at the small of Weiss’s back as Weiss tilts a little to the left.</p><p>Yang leans over. “Do you want to go outside?” she shouts over the beginning of the new band’s set, a crash of drums ringing like a meteor shower across the stage. “Ruby and Pyrrha and I are probably going home now, so we can shove through the crowd together.” </p><p>“No!” Weiss exclaims, pushing off of Blake’s hand. She points at Yang, her finger wavering back and forth. “<em> You </em> and <em> you </em> - ” She points to Blake now. “You two are going out tonight. Anywhere. I don’t care. Here - ” She digs at the sides of her white dress, pulls out a slim wallet, hands Blake a black Express card as folded twenties fall from her hand and shower down around their feet. Weiss doesn’t bother picking them up. </p><p>Blake’s eyes widen. “What?” </p><p>Weiss rests her hand against Blake’s shoulder, leaning into her now. “You haven’t tried anything with anyone for a <em> year </em> , and now I see you making out with this girl in the middle of the club? I think that’s a sign.” Her voice drops a little. “I know what you’ve been through, Blake. I <em> know </em>. And you deserve a second chance at love - you deserve every chance. You just have to let yourself take it.”</p><p>“It’s not - that kiss was fake,” Blake protests, but she looks at Yang, smiling lazily in the strobe light glow, seemingly leaning on thin air, and starts to wonder why she’s even bothering to protest. “And how will you get home?”</p><p>“I can take her home,” Pyrrha offers, her voice surprisingly soft, ringing gently, the smallest cymbal on her drum set. “I mean, I can make sure that she gets home alright.” </p><p>“See,” Weiss slurs, swaying back against Pyrrha now, icy white and fiery red colliding. “I’m fine, Blake. Go. Have fun. The night is young.” </p><p>Blake looks to Yang, her expression a searching question, and Yang answers with the slightest curve of her lips. </p><p>“Fine,” Blake says, starting to shake off the ghost of Adam’s hand on her shoulder as the drums crash again, bursting like thunder. There’s a kind of electricity to this night, hot and simmering and filled with promise. It’s everywhere; in the secret smiles passing between Weiss and Pyrrha, in the rolling lines of music pushing through the darkened room, and especially in the heat of Yang’s gaze, lilac burning like starlight against Blake’s skin. </p><p>Yang feels like pure lightning, and Blake welcomes the current with outstretched arms. </p><p>They’re floating through the crowd, Yang leading them forward with that perfect sense of confidence, people parting like waves in the ocean before them, and then they’re on the sidewalk outside the club. The September night hits Blake like a breath of fresh air pushed right into her lungs.</p><p>“Have fun,” Weiss says, resting one hand on Blake’s hip and reaching up to kiss her on the cheek. “I’ll see you in the morning.”</p><p>“You’re going to be so embarrassed tomorrow,” Blake laughs, pushing one errant strand of silvery hair behind Weiss’s ear. “Drink some water. Leave the kitchen light on. Don’t panic when you realize that you don’t have your credit card.”</p><p>Weiss smiles at her, a quick quirk of the mouth, then leans on Pyrrha as the two of them make their way towards the nearest subway station, Ruby following in their wake. </p><p>Then it’s just Blake and Yang, two strangers surrounded by familiarity, standing alone in the center of an electric city, an infinite night. Blake tips her head up to look at the skyscrapers, the shattered moon, the false daylight of a thousand streetlamps and neon signs, and for a moment she’s swept away by the echoes of life ringing through the streets. </p><p>“Hey,” Yang says, and when Blake turns to look at her, she thinks that Yang might be brighter than every light in the city. </p><p>“Hey,” Blake says back. </p><p>Yang slides one hand into the pocket of her jacket, a casual, easy movement. “What do you wanna do?” </p><p>Something about the set of Yang’s shoulders feels like permission to let go. Blake lets the fear and the memory and the tension bleed from her body, shakes it out and lets hope flood in to fill the empty spaces. </p><p>“What do I want to do?” she repeats, and sees a world of glorious possibility opening up before them. The road rising to meet them. “Anything. Everything.” </p><p>“I was thinking more like <em> let’s get something to eat </em> or <em> let’s go make out on a park bench until security guards chase us with flashlights, </em> ” Yang says. “But hey, <em> everything </em> is a good place to start.” She’s smiling directly at Blake, and it’s like being showered in sunlight. </p><p>“Is this the start?” Blake murmurs.</p><p>“Is it?” Yang asks. Question for a question, the act of repetition an answer in its own. Yang looks nothing like anger or violence and everything like the sun itself, and Blake finds herself smiling now as she says, “Yeah. I think it is.”</p><p>//</p><p>“So,” Yang says, as they walk down Atlas Avenue. “What did you think of our set?”</p><p>“That’s your first question?” Blake asks jokingly. “Narcissist.” </p><p>Yang shrugs one shoulder. “You can tell me about your friends or your family or your dog first, if that makes you feel better.” </p><p>“Not a dog person,” Blake says automatically. “But...yeah. Your set was amazing.” </p><p>Yang grins, and Blake rolls her eyes. “Great, I’m already stroking your ego.” </p><p>“Play your cards right and that won’t be the only thing you’re stroking tonight.” </p><p>“That was awful,” Blake laughs, pushing Yang slightly. A year later and she’s still re-learning the innocence of touch, the concept of harmless physical contact - with Adam, every touch was only ever one step from violence - but something about Yang makes it easy.</p><p>“Sorry,” Yang says, completely unapologetic. “Now that we’ve gotten praising me out of the way, I can ask the real questions.”</p><p>“Can’t wait,” Blake says. The streetlights cast a warm glow over Yang’s face, and Blake almost trips over her own feet from looking too closely. </p><p>“Do you go to school here in the city?” Yang asks. </p><p>“Yeah, I’m at University of Atlas. Sophomore, criminal justice major. You?”</p><p>“Also a sophomore. Business major with a double minor,” Yang says. “Ruby and Pyrrha and I all go to Triple A, over on West 56th.”</p><p>Triple A. Atlas Academy of the Arts, the best and most illustrious liberal arts university in the country. </p><p>“Well,” Blake says, eyebrows raised. “Color me impressed, Miss…”</p><p>“Xiao Long,” Yang supplies. “Why thank you, Miss…” She flicks Blake’s own words back at her, simple and easy, and Blake can’t help smiling.</p><p>“Belladonna.” </p><p>“Blake Belladonna,” Yang muses, Blake’s name rolling off her tongue like the very best line from a love song. “Sounds like a superhero’s alter ego.”</p><p>“Yeah, you got me,” Blake says. “Whenever you walk down a darkened alley and feel the shadow of danger on your back before a caped figure runs across the rooftops and shelters you in a feeling of safety, whenever a solitary hero stops a bank robbery or a five alarm fire - it’s all me.” </p><p>Yang laughs out loud, the sound bright and bold against the velvet of the night. Blake shivers a little; they’re caught in that wavering middle ground where the latest days of summer slide into the earliest days of autumn, and there’s a raw-edged chill in the air. </p><p>“Here,” Yang says, and then she’s draping her jacket around Blake’s shoulders. Blake slides her arms into the sleeves and inhales; a faint smell of cigarettes from the club, and beneath that, something like vanilla and laundry detergent and comforting warmth. Something like Yang.</p><p>“Hm,” Blake says, pushing her hands into the jacket pockets. It’s almost like holding Yang’s hand. “I don’t know that I’m cool enough to wear this jacket. It seems to be made for punked out rock stars who probably wear sunglasses indoors.” </p><p>“You’re definitely not,” Yang says, smirking. “But I’ll give you a pass this one time.” </p><p>It’s a give and take between them, a push and pull that’s somehow as natural as breathing to Blake. There’s an aching familiarity to Yang; it’s like walking into a darkened room and turning on the lights to find that you’re already home.</p><p>They pass a pretzel cart and Yang tugs Blake’s arm, bringing her to a halt. “Do you want a pretzel?”</p><p>Blake flashes her a grin. “Only if you’re buying.”</p><p>“Oh, you’re going to be trouble,” Yang says, and then in the same breath, to the pretzel vendor, “Two large pretzels, please.” </p><p>She reaches into Blake’s pocket for her wallet, and Blake notices that even in the shitty fluorescent glow of the pretzel cart, Yang looks like something out of a dream.</p><p>Yang leads her over to a bench near the street corner, and for a moment they just sit and eat their pretzels, watching the cars pass by in flashes of metal and red brake lights.</p><p>“Sometimes I look at cars and wonder what’s going on inside them,” Blake says thoughtfully. “You know - who’s driving home from a first date, who’s searching the radio for a perfect song, who’s trying not to ruin the upholstery of their Uber after too many shots of tequila at the bar...” </p><p>“Who’s sitting in the backseat watching <em> Huntresses of Beacon </em> reruns on their outdated iPad while pretending that they’re not invested in a kid’s cartoon show?” </p><p>“Exactly,” Blake says. Yang laughs and takes another bite of pretzel, and Blake follows the motion of her throat as she swallows. </p><p>Yang turns to look at her, and Blake’s been caught staring, but she doesn’t drop her gaze. Lilac meets amber, steady and unwavering, and the corner of Yang’s mouth curls up.</p><p>“Okay, this will sound like a line,” she says, “but does it feel like we’ve met before?”</p><p>Blake laughs. “You’re right,” she says. “That did sound like a line.” But that’s exactly what it feels like, and she can’t deny it. Yang feels like her favorite song, her most comfortable sweater, something true and intimate that fits perfectly in the deepest parts of Blake’s soul.</p><p>Yang just smirks. “Oh, Blake,” she says. “You <em> wish </em> I was using lines on you.” </p><p>That’s true too, and judging from the way Yang smiles, she knows it. </p><p>“Maybe I should have paid,” Blake says as they start off down the street again. “Weiss did give me her card, after all.” </p><p>“Don’t worry,” Yang says, her eyes gleaming like amethyst under the city lights. “You’ll have plenty more chances.” </p><p>//</p><p>The river shines before them, green and red leadlights flashing back and forth from the boats lining the banks. On the far side, Blake can see the tall grey crates stamped with the Schnee Dust Company logo, and she smiles to herself for a moment, thinking of Weiss. </p><p>“I used to want to be a sailor,” Yang says, nodding towards a tall clipper ship moored at the dock nearest them. “When I was like, seven, my uncle Qrow gave me this captain’s hat, and I refused to take it off for a solid month, even at night. Eventually my dad had to steal it while I was sleeping just so he could finally wash it.”</p><p>Blake laughs. “What made you change your career path?” </p><p>“One, I got my first toy guitar for Christmas, and two, I realized that I couldn’t tie a decent knot for shit.” Yang pauses, winks at Blake. “Learned how to make a pretty good one with my tongue, though.” </p><p>Blake feels a rush of heat, a flash of arousal; she pushes down the urge to ask for a demonstration. </p><p>“Let’s sit again,” she says, nodding towards a bench by the harbor. The streetlight above casts a warm yellow glow over them, light pooling around their feet like molten gold. “I have an idea.” </p><p>“I’m down,” Yang says. “Especially if it involves us using this <em> very </em> nice bench for...recreational purposes.” </p><p>“Hilarious,” Blake deadpans. “No, I want to play a game. We show each other everything in our pockets, and then we make assumptions about each other based on what we find.” </p><p>Yang tugs gently on the collar of her jacket, her fingers brushing lightly over Blake’s collarbone, the touch ghosting like a secret whispered into her skin. Blake shivers, but not from the cold this time. “You’ll have to empty my pockets for me,” Yang says, “since you’re the one wearing them right now.” </p><p>Blake digs into the pockets of Yang’s worn jacket, pulling out a handful of things; a couple folded sheets of blank paper, the stub of a pencil, a black cigarette lighter, a beaten-up phone several models behind the current one, a half-empty pack of spearmint gum, and a slim wallet. She raises an eyebrow at Yang, who just shrugs. </p><p>“You know,” Blake says, “you treat the pockets of your jacket just like I treat the backseat of Weiss’s car.” </p><p>Yang’s mouth quirks in amusement. “I guess I tend to accumulate stuff, yeah. But it’s all important.” </p><p>Blake pulls a small cardstock square from in between the folded sheets of paper. “A ticket stub from the matinee showing of <em> Scooby-Doo </em>is important?” </p><p>Yang blushes slightly. “Ruby made us go see it.” </p><p>“Hm,” Blake says. Yang’s punk rock veneer is cracking slightly, and Blake likes what she sees underneath. She wants to know every part of Yang, and the depth of that desire almost scares her. “Anyways, time for assumptions.” She picks up the paper and pencil. “You probably have these on hand to write things down when inspiration strikes, so I’m guessing that you write most of the songs for your band.” She moves on to the lighter. “You’ve got a lighter but a pack of gum instead of cigarettes; either you’re a smoker trying to quit, or you’re carrying a lighter for the aesthetic and you just really like gum.” </p><p>“I don’t smoke,” Yang admits. “But what kind of punk rock band guitarist doesn’t have a lighter on hand? Plus, it’s a good conversation starter. You know, you see some hot girl outside the club, you ask if they want a light.” </p><p>“<em> Or </em>,” Blake says, “maybe you’re secretly a pyromaniac, and you carry the lighter around to indulge your whims of setting things on fire every ten minutes.” </p><p>Yang’s eyes shine with merriment. “Guilty as charged.” </p><p>Blake holds up the phone and the wallet. “There’s not much money in here, and your phone is an older version that’s not in particularly good shape, so I’m going to guess that you’re not very concerned with money or material goods. Very punk rock of you.” </p><p>“Two for three,” Yang says. “Pretty good. Okay, your turn.” </p><p>Blake pushes everything back into Yang’s pockets, somewhat feeling like she’s putting things away inside Yang’s house, and then digs through her own pockets. There’s not much; just her phone, Weiss’s credit card, and a black ribbon folded into a careful square. She hands it all over to Yang, and her heart swells at the way her belongings fit perfectly into Yang’s careful hands.</p><p>“Alright,” Yang says. “First, we have this phone, which - wow, top of the line, newest model.” She flips it over, looks at the screen without turning the phone on. “Damn, not a single scratch. Okay, you’re definitely a more careful person than me.” She tips her head to one side, studying Blake carefully, and Blake’s entire world turns lilac. “And it’s not just with material belongings, either. You’re more withdrawn, more distant. You hold your emotions like cards, close to your chest; nothing you give is earned easily.” </p><p>Blake lets out a shaky breath, impressed. “You got all that from my phone?” </p><p>Yang nods, already moving on to the next thing - Weiss’s credit card. “You’ve got your friend’s card, which says a lot about your relationship, or a lot about how drunk she was earlier.”</p><p>“Shitfaced Weiss is never careful with her money,” Blake says, thinking back to the money littering the floor of the club. </p><p> A dimple flashes in Yang’s cheek as she smiles, brilliant and fleeting as a shooting star, and Blake wishes she could rewind time to see it again. “Anyways, I think that she’s one of the few people you let down your guard for, and you two trust each other with a lot. Possibly even your lives.” </p><p>“Goddamn,” Blake says. “You’re good at this.” </p><p>Yang ducks her head. “I might be cheating a little.” </p><p>“How?” </p><p>“I’m minoring in psych.” </p><p>“You’re such a dick,” Blake laughs. “You had me thinking you were some kind of master of perception.” </p><p>Yang flicks a hand dismissively. “Let me finish here.” She waits for Blake’s nod, then reaches for the last item.</p><p>“Finally,” she says, “we have - actually, I don’t know what this is.” She shakes out the ribbon, lets it trail through the air like the first leaf of autumn falling to earth. “A hair ribbon? I’ll be honest, I have no idea what this means.” </p><p>Blake bites her lip, a dormant sadness waking in her. “My mother gave me that,” she says quietly. “Before she died. She said it would always bring me all the luck I needed, as long as I wore it somewhere on me. I stopped wearing it because Adam - my ex, the guy from the club - he thought it was stupid, and it was easier to hide it than argue. And even now, I just carry it around with me instead of wearing it.” She looks away, shame burning a hollow path through her heart, the cavity of her chest feeling like winter; Adam, still in there, freezing her over, glaciers pushing down.</p><p>Yang lays a hand on top of hers, the caress of her fingers the first warmth of spring, and Blake looks up again. </p><p>“It’s not stupid,” Yang says simply. “You still carry it, and that means something. It’s important to you, and nothing that’s important to you could ever be called stupid.” </p><p>Blake is overwhelmed by the quiet weight of gratitude, and she pushes for something to lighten the mood. “Not even my collection of limited edition Huntress figurines from sixth grade that I still have at home?” </p><p>“Not even those,” Yang laughs, following the turn in conversation like a curve in the road. “Pyrrha used to collect those, too. Speaking of her, I wonder how she’s doing with your friend.” </p><p>“Trust me,” Blake says. “She’s probably got her hands full. Drunk Weiss is a force to be reckoned with, and Pyrrha is <em> very much </em>her type.” </p><p>“Weiss is Pyrrha’s type, too,” Yang says, a smile flickering at the edge of her lips.. “I think they’re going to be fast friends.” </p><p>“<em> Fast friends </em>,” Blake muses. “Is that what they call it these days?” </p><p>//</p><p>The street is nothing but a colorful jumble of angles to Weiss, a hazy image blurred by too much tequila. She’s barely aware of anything except the tall girl at her side and the warm hand pressed to the small of her back, steadying her as they walk over broken cobblestones speckled with fragments of golden light. </p><p>“This way,” Weiss says, hearing her voice slur, lines of sound going crooked as they fly through the air. “Building up here. Left...wait, I mean the other left. Right.”  </p><p>Pyrrha chuckles, letting Weiss pull her up the carpeted steps of the building where Weiss and Blake share a seventh-story apartment. “You’re not going to end up leading us into some stranger’s apartment, are you?” </p><p>“I would never,” Weiss protests, pushing clumsily at the elevator buttons. Pyrrha reaches out, lets Weiss’s fingers guide her to the button marked with a 7; Weiss tries to hold onto her hand even after the moment passes, but falls backwards when the elevator starts off with a jolt. </p><p>“I like that noise,” she says, listening to the elevator <em> ding </em>pleasantly as they reach their floor. “That’s a good noise.” </p><p>“You’re really drunk, you know that,” Pyrrha says, her voice soft with amusement. </p><p>“And you’re really pretty,” Weiss says, reaching up on tiptoe to touch Pyrrha’s nose. Even in high-heeled boots, even standing on the very tips of her toes, the top of Weiss’s head barely reaches Pyrrha’s collarbones. </p><p>Pyrrha blushes, and Weiss counts that as a win. “Here,” she says, stopping in front of Apartment B. “This one’s ours. Mine. And Blake’s. See, it has her initial on the door.” She leans up against the door, waiting for it to open.</p><p>“Weiss,” Pyrrha says, still in that beautifully soft voice, a hint of laughter flowing like music underneath her words. “You need to unlock the door. I don’t have the key.” </p><p>“Here,” Weiss says, pushing her hip towards Pyrrha. “It’s in my pocket somewhere. Help yourself.” </p><p>Weiss is dimly aware that she’s acting a fool in a way she’s never done before, losing control in a way that the heir to the Schnee legacy never should, but Pyrrha blushes again, as pink and pretty as a summer rose, and Weiss stops caring about upholding her family name or even her own dignity. </p><p>Pyrrha reaches into her pocket carefully, respectfully, drawing out the key without even touching her. Weiss tries not to be disappointed, tries not to think about how much she wants Pyrrha’s hands on her.</p><p>The door opens and she spills into the front hall, blinking against the darkness, fumbling for the light switch as Pyrrha closes the door behind them. </p><p>“Leave the kitchen light on,” Weiss mumbles, recalling Blake’s words from earlier. “Drink some water.” </p><p>Pyrrha crosses the kitchen in one graceful motion, reaches for a water glass without hesitation, as if she’s been here before. She fills it and hands it to Weiss, who downs half of it in one sip. </p><p>“My room’s over...” Weiss says, pushing on the door. “Here.” She collapses onto her bed, forgetting that she’s supposed to meditate before sleeping, forgetting that her dress is designer and needs to be hung out and ironed after wearing. </p><p>“Don’t fall asleep just yet,” Pyrrha says, following her in. “Hold on.” She goes into the bathroom connected to Weiss’s room, comes back out with a wet washcloth. “Sit up, and I’ll take your makeup off.” </p><p>Weiss sits up obediently, unashamedly leaning into Pyrrha’s touch as she wipes away Weiss’s makeup with a steady hand. </p><p>“There,” Pyrrha says. “I can help you out of the dress, too.” </p><p>“Ha,” Weiss says, too loudly. “You want to see me naked.” </p><p>“Oh, I - ” Pyrrha stammers. She’s blushing again, and god, Weiss really is drunk out of her head, because she looks at Pyrrha’s beautiful face and thinks she wants to live in the soft flush of pink that colors her cheeks. “No, I didn’t mean it like that. I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable when you sleep.” </p><p>Weiss turns around, letting Pyrrha’s fingers undo her zipper, and then kicks herself out of the dress and lets it drop to the floor, designer be damned. Her bra goes the same way as she reaches for a sleep shirt, somewhat disappointed to see that Pyrrha is studiously looking in the other direction. </p><p>“I’m decent,” Weiss announces, flopping into her bed, “and now I’m passing out.” </p><p>Pyrrha disappears into the bathroom again, bringing back a bottle of Tylenol and setting it on Weiss’s bedside table next to the water glass. “Here, remember to take some of these when you wake up.” She brushes the covers over Weiss, smoothes the sheets lightly, and something tugs in Weiss’s chest. She’s not ready to let this girl go, not ready to lose her careful gestures and kind words. </p><p>Pyrrha’s appearance is punk - three piercings in each ear, a nose stud that glitters like a star in the pale light of Weiss’s room, red leather pants and a ripped black t shirt with safety pins clipped to the shoulders - but her personality is pure sunlight, the warmest type of kindhearted compassion. </p><p>She is beautiful polarity. She is everything Weiss’s parents would hate, and that just makes Weiss want her even more. </p><p>“Will you stay?” Weiss asks, the request falling from her lips before she’s consciously aware of thinking it. “In bed. With me.” </p><p>Pyrrha hesitates. Her hand lingers on Weiss’s covers, and even though they’re not in direct contact, Weiss’s body burns in response. A fucking Bangles song. An eternal flame. </p><p>“Not for that,” Weiss says, and the room’s spinning before her eyes, but Pyrrha remains. “I mean, I don’t...I just don’t want to lose you yet.” </p><p>Pyrrha nods, and her smile is the sunrise after the storm.</p><p>“Don’t get me wrong,” Weiss mumbles, as Pyrrha ditches her band outfit to steal one of Weiss’s largest shirts, the hem falling barely to the tops of her thighs. “I’d absolutely, one hundred percent sleep with you. Anytime you want, actually. Say the word and I’m yours.” </p><p>Pyrrha laughs, rolling into Weiss’s bed. Weiss curls up into her without a second of hesitation, their bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces. “I’ll keep that in mind,” Pyrrha says. “Are you going to remember this in the morning?” </p><p>“Probably not,” Weiss admits. “But for tonight, this is enough.” Her room is familiar, but Pyrrha feels like home, and without even trying, Weiss lets herself slide away into sleep. </p><p>//</p><p>“I want to know who came up with the names for these streets,” Yang says, staring up at the street signs as they stop for a traffic light. “Some of them are just stupid. Who the hell would want to live on <em> Treacle Boulevard </em>?” </p><p>“Someone who eats treacle, probably,” Blake laughs. “I have it good, though. I’m on Beacon Street. Practically makes me a Huntress.” </p><p>Yang’s eyes widen. “Wait, you live on Beacon? Me too. What’s your cross street?” </p><p>“Beacon and 53rd,” Blake answers. “Yours?” </p><p>“Beacon and 69th,” Yang says, a smirk gracing the corner of her mouth. Blake rolls her eyes. “Ah, I should have known. Suits you.” </p><p>“Really, though,” Yang says. “Sixteen blocks apart, and we’ve never seen each other before tonight. Why do you think that is?” </p><p>Blake shrugs. “Atlas is a big city.” </p><p>“Okay, well that’s the boring theory,” Yang says. “The exciting theory is that we never met before now because everything was leading up to this moment. Tonight was kismet.” </p><p>There’s a certain weight to that statement, a truth that curls around Blake’s bones and settles in her ribcage, but all she says is, “You think it’s fate?” </p><p>“Something like that, yeah,” Yang says, eyes bright. “Don’t you believe in destiny?” </p><p>Blake thinks of a scarred face, a feverish intensity, a hateful diatribe. False apologies after brutal fights, like bandages placed on bullet wounds. <em>You can’t leave me, Blake.</em> <em>We’re meant to be.</em></p><p>“Maybe I did once,” she says. “But not anymore.” </p><p>Yang shrugs, wraps an arm around her waist. Warmth spreads through Blake, shaking the ghost of memory from her back. “Call it what you want,” she says. “But this night feels right to me.” </p><p>“It does,” Blake agrees, and Yang smiles at her, a golden firebrand in the darkness, a lilac star balanced at her fingertips. </p><p>“Turn left,” Yang says. “I want to show you something.” </p><p>They walk into a large cobblestone square ringed with tall torches, a fountain in the middle pushing water upwards in brief defiance of gravity before falling back to earth. Blake looks around at the torches - tall, slender poles topped with iron-wrought cages to hold a flame, no light in any of them.</p><p>“Have you been here before?” Yang asks. </p><p>Blake shakes her head, and Yang looks relieved. “Thank god. This is one of my favorite places, and it wouldn’t be very impressive if you’ve already seen it.” </p><p>“So you’re trying to impress me?” Blake asks, the corner of her mouth quirking. </p><p>Yang just shrugs, lazy lines of gold against the midnight haze. “Maybe a little.” </p><p>“It’s pretty,” Blake concedes, thinking: <em>but not as pretty as you. </em>“Even though the torches aren’t lit.” </p><p>“Oh, well, in that case,” Yang says. “Close your eyes for a moment.” </p><p>Blake frowns. “What?” </p><p>“Actually, I have a better idea,” Yang says. She slips her hand into Blake’s pocket, lifts out the black ribbon easily, her fingers as light as a summer breeze. “Can I?” </p><p>Blake nods, and Yang brushes her hair back from her face with two soft movements, then carefully ties the ribbon around her eyes. Darkness wraps around Blake’s vision, and she stands still, uncertain, nerves tingling and slightly raw. </p><p>“Trust me,” Yang says, one hand resting against Blake’s collarbone for the barest, briefest moment, the other dipping into her jacket pocket. “I’m not going far. Just wait a moment.” </p><p>Then she’s gone, and Blake is standing alone. She lets the sounds of the city fold her in, lets the rush of traffic and the blare of horns and the flow of the fountain rock her like a lullaby, wonders what exactly Yang is doing. </p><p>There’s a noise like the flare of a fire being stoked, and Blake jumps slightly. </p><p>“Hey,” Yang says, and her fingers are tracing the edge of Blake’s face again, pushing the ribbon up. “Look.” The darkness evaporates, and Blake can’t help but gasp.</p><p>Every torch in the courtyard is lit, flames burning brighter and yet softer than the city lights, orange and yellow fire pushing against iron boundaries, seeking freedom. </p><p>And then there’s Yang, standing in front of her, smiling warmer than any flame, cheap black lighter dangling from one hand.</p><p>“No way,” Blake says. “How the hell - no way. There is <em> no way </em> you just lit all of those with that dinky little lighter.” </p><p>Yang grins. “If you say so.” She pushes the lighter back into Blake’s pocket. “Makes the view better, doesn’t it?” </p><p>“Yang Xiao Long,” Blake says, nudging her shoulder against Yang’s. She finds it hard to finish the sentence, because the sound of Yang’s name is damn near perfect in her mouth. “You are a fucking revelation.” </p><p>“So you liked it, then,” Yang says, more of a statement than a question. </p><p>“Color me impressed,” Blake says. She pushes at the edges of the ribbon still tied around her head, the silk soft against her skin. Yang unties the ribbon, folds it into a tiny, perfect square. She places it in the top pocket of Blake’s jacket, right over her heart. As she does so, her fingers catch on a small piece of metal pinned to the leather.</p><p>“Yang,” Blake says reproachfully. “You put pins on a leather jacket?” </p><p>“It’s the punk rock way,” Yang says, not a trace of regret in her voice. “Plus, it’s just the one for our band.” She detaches the pin deftly, hands it to Blake, and Blake rolls it around in her fingers, the metal pressing cool shadows into her skin. There’s a word written on it: EM<b>PYR</b>E. Blake recognizes it as the same logo branded on Pyrrha’s drum set.</p><p>“Ruby came up with that,” Yang says, running a finger over the letters. “Thought it was cool, since it has all of our initials in it. I liked Yang + The Machine, but Pyrrha and Ruby didn’t go for it.” </p><p>Blake laughs.</p><p>“You win some, you lose some,” Yang shrugs. “At least I get to write the songs. Pyrrha’s more of a melodies gal, and you can only listen to Ruby come up with couplets for so long before you want to strangle her.” </p><p>“So you <em> are </em> the songwriter,” Blake muses. “Maybe you’ll write a song about me one day.” </p><p>Yang sticks the pin back on Blake’s jacket. She lets her hand drop to Blake’s waist, fingertips pressing against Blake’s hip for one breath before she takes a step back, and her smile is absolutely devastating. </p><p>“Blake Belladonna,” she says, Blake’s name ringing like a church bell in her confident melody of a voice. “What makes you think I haven’t started already?” </p><p>As Yang holds out a hand to her, golden hair flashing, still the brightest thing in a courtyard of fire, a beautiful thought starts to take shape in Blake’s mind. </p><p>Maybe her luck is changing for the better.</p><p>//</p><p> “Where to now?” Yang asks as they make their way down Haven and 19th. “A visit to the top of Atlas Tower? A little midnight retail therapy? Maybe see if we can check out the <em> Huntresses of Beacon </em>merchandise store, since you’re such a big fan?” She’s teasing, and the upwards curve of amusement at the edges of her mouth makes Blake’s heart flutter in her ribcage like a bird waiting to break free.</p><p>“Definitely the merchandise store,” she replies. </p><p>“We’ll probably have to break in, since it’s closed,” Yang says, “but it’ll be worth it to complete your collection of limited edition figurines, won’t it.” </p><p>“I never should have told you that,” Blake huffs. Her phone buzzes in her pocket, and she could have sworn that the ringer was off, but she pulls it out to see two messages from Sun.</p><p><b>sun wukong: </b>come to haven and 22nd there’s an unannounced sisters grimm show happening at epiphany</p><p><b>sun wukong: </b>not a drill! hurry your ass up!</p><p>Blake blinks at the words on the screen, shocked. Yang pushes her shoulder. “What’s wrong?” </p><p>“Nothing,” Blake says. “I mean, something’s right. Do you know Sisters Grimm?” </p><p>“<em> Blake </em>,” Yang says, all exaggerated frown and feigned offense. “You’re asking the guitarist from the hottest undiscovered punk rock band in Atlas if she knows Sisters Grimm? Of course I know them. Fucking brilliant band. Why?” </p><p>“Well,” Blake says with a smirk, “they’re playing a secret show tonight, but I wasn’t sure that you’d be interested.” </p><p>Yang’s jaw drops, and Blake takes a moment to soak in this new Yang; shocked, open, air of coolness temporarily disintegrated. </p><p>“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Blake sighs. “Oh well, I guess I can see them another day.”</p><p>“Do not fuck with me, Blake Belladonna,” Yang says. “Sisters Grimm? An unannounced show? Here in Atlas?” </p><p>“That’s what I said, yes,” Blake says, wrapping a playful arm around Yang’s waist. “So?”</p><p>“I’m in,” Yang says immediately. “So in. <em> Journey To The Center Of The Earth </em>in.” </p><p>“Oh, good,” Blake says. “I thought you'd need more convincing.” </p><p>Yang scoffs. “A secret Sisters Grimm show with the prettiest girl in all of Remnant? That’s all the convincing necessary to get me on board.” </p><p>“Oh,” Blake says softly, and she can feel the heat rising in her cheeks, pushing pink into her face, roses warmed in the sun. </p><p>Yang just nods, and leans into her as they walk.</p><p>//</p><p>Epiphany is one of the hottest clubs in Atlas, and it’s only three streets away. Even this late, when the night has already started bleeding into morning, the line goes around the block - apparently the secret show isn’t such a secret anymore.</p><p>Yang leads Blake to the front door, heedless of the stares and glares, surrounded by that same untouchable confidence that first caught Blake’s attention back at Mirrorball. </p><p>“Hey, Coco,” Yang says to the bouncer at the door, a tall woman with short brown hair and sunglasses pushed on top of her head. “Mind letting us through?” </p><p>Blake expects a denial, a refusal, at the very least an ID check, but Coco only winks and pulls aside the velvet rope to let them pass. Yang strides through without missing a beat and Blake follows, wondering why she was surprised. Yang is just like that, Blake is starting to learn; where she moves, a hurricane follows. She’s the kind of person who makes doors open, floors shake, walls fall down.</p><p>Walls, Blake thinks, that might include her own. </p><p>“Over here,” she says, motioning towards the tables at the back of the room. “I see a friend of mine.” And indeed, Sun is standing on a chair, waving both arms at them.</p><p>“Blake!” Sun yells, jumping down from the chair, landing without a sound. “Can you believe this? Sisters Grimm. Sisters fucking Grimm!” His eyes flick towards Yang, and he blinks. “Whoa, wait, you didn't tell me you were on a date.” </p><p>“I mean, it’s not exactly - ” </p><p>“Yeah, we are,” Yang cuts in smoothly, her hand dropping to Blake’s leg, her tone sliding into a lower register; a hint of suggestiveness, a flash of seduction. “She’s showing me a good time.” </p><p>Sun wolf whistles. Blake feels heat spread outwards from her core, rushing along her arms, pooling in her chest. Yang catches her eye as she bites her lip slowly, and Blake thinks she might combust on the spot. The Sisters Grimm aren’t even on the stage yet, but it doesn’t matter, because the show’s already started here - in Yang’s lips, her deep lilac eyes, her hand pushing slowly against Blake’s thigh.</p><p>“Let’s get to the mosh pit,” Sun says, oblivious, “before it’s totally filled.” </p><p>Yang’s hand moves away, and Blake wants to pull her back in, wants to press her fingers back against her skin, wants it so badly that her head spins with the dizziness of desire.</p><p>They follow Sun into the mosh pit, surrounded by the press of strangers, everything steel and leather and denim, and Yang pushes up against her.</p><p>“You good?” Yang says, the question a half shout against the buzz of the crowd. Her eyes are flashing like stars, and Blake nods. She’s good. She’s more than good.</p><p>“Perfect,” she yells back, and there’s a flicker of lights, a crash of drums, an explosion of smoke pushing against the front row, and then the Sisters Grimm are on stage, bursting into the first song of their set: the criminally underrated anti-establishment breakup track <em> Fucked Against The Machine.  </em></p><p>The first chords rip through the speakers, a lit fuse touching the kindling of the mosh pit, and the room explodes into sound and motion. It’s a storm of chords and lyrics, a tornado of jumping and dancing and screaming along, the kind of natural disaster that is perfect in its own raging destruction.</p><p>Sun jumps up, disappears over the crowd, the sea of hands carrying him away. Blake barely even notices; all she can think is words of heartbreak and anger, lyrics falling around her like shooting stars streaking to earth, and then Yang.</p><p>Yang pushes right up against her, moves like the dance floor is a bed in a darkened room, and Blake bites down on her lip. She pushes back, rolls her hips like a crack of broken thunder, allows herself to press her hands against Yang’s side, right where her shirt is riding up; sweat, skin, softness underneath it all. Yang’s fingers curl around Blake’s wrist, press into her pulse, where Blake knows there’s a three-hammer beat, an electric shock, a one-two punch, heart and blood running even faster than her thoughts, faster than the beat of the song. </p><p>The touch is like a conversation, and like so much more. The bass resonates in her chest like it’s carving out a permanent home, echoes in an empty chamber, stones skipping across a stormy sea. </p><p>Yang’s head is cocked at an angle that slices through Blake’s defenses like a razor wire, mouth moving, screaming the lyrics. Blake wants to sing along too, but all her words are caught in a pocket of silence in her throat as she stares at Yang’s mouth like it’s a target. Earlier this night, several lifetimes ago, there were five minutes when Yang belonged to her, and Blake knows that the moment has passed, but it doesn’t stop her from wanting it anyway. </p><p>The curve of Yang’s mouth beckons like the rise of a staircase and Blake wants nothing more than to be closer to heaven, so she takes the first step. </p><p>Blake pulls Yang towards her, presses her lips against the corner of Yang’s mouth; it’s a quick movement that walks the line between an accident and a kiss, and Blake doesn’t know which side it will fall on. </p><p>Before she can wait for it to settle, Yang decides for her. </p><p>Yang slides one hand to the back of Blake’s neck and pulls her into a real kiss, soft but demanding, her mouth moving against Blake’s like she wants to swallow her whole.</p><p>And the scary thing is, Blake realizes, she wants to let it happen.</p><p>Yang pulls back just an inch and whispers <em> “Fuck,” </em> into Blake’s mouth, and then they’re crashing through the crowd towards the back of the room, the neon red-lit hallway, the bathroom doors carving dark rectangles into the wall. Blake’s back hits the door to the women’s bathroom, head tipping back against the <em> Ladies </em>sign, Yang’s mouth on her neck and sliding against the heartbeat hammering in her throat. </p><p>Blake hears something like a strangled whine, and it’s only after another minute of Yang’s lips against her pulse point that she realizes the noise is coming from her own mouth. Sisters Grimm have kicked into another song,<em> Punish The Leviathan, </em>but Blake can barely hear the words over the rush in her ears. </p><p>Yang’s hands are under her shirt now, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of Blake’s jeans. Blake threads her hands in Yang’s hair and buries herself in molten gold; wheat fields, sunlight, every precious metal on earth. </p><p>She drags her hands through Yang’s hair and curls it around her fingers, pulls a little, and Yang lets out a sound that has Blake’s head spinning. Yang’s hand reaches the edge of Blake’s underwear, waits for permission. Blake can barely find the breath to gasp, “God, yes, please.” </p><p>Yang kisses her again, hot and open-mouthed and filthy, and Blake’s entire body feels like fallingwater. Yang’s not even touching her yet, not properly, not where Blake needs it most. She feels like an explosion waiting to happen. She feels like she’s drowning in sensations, in heat and touch and something like love. </p><p>
  <em> Love.  </em>
</p><p>A flash behind her eyes, a shift backwards in time, and Blake’s pushed up against another wall in another room, shaking in anger instead of arousal, in fear. Adam’s shoving her back, hands too rough, bruises blooming under his touch. Let it happen, Blake, don’t struggle, it’s all love...<em> ,  </em></p><p>Blake brushes back the memories, but she can’t stop thinking now, and it’s not right, nothing’s right; she can’t feel this way. Love is nothing but a sharpened blade, nothing but a loaded gun. </p><p>Yang’s stopped now, eyes wide, confused. Her hair tumbles down around her shoulders like a waterfall of pure gold, and Blake wants to dive in and never surface again.</p><p>“Are you okay?” she says, and Blake can’t listen, can’t breathe. Yang’s eyes are still dark with arousal, but now they’re also filled with confusion and concern and - </p><p>
  <em> Something like love.  </em>
</p><p>It’s too much. It’s too much too soon, and too little too late, and everything feels so right and so wrong at the same time. Blake’s mind feels like a thunderstorm. </p><p>A new bassline rips through the darkness, a dark current pushing through the club. <em> Runaway Cyclone, </em>the most famous Sisters Grimm song. It feels like a message to Blake, a sign even brighter than the cracked neon ones hanging over the bar. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” she says to Yang, and for some inexplicable reason, she presses a kiss to Yang’s collarbone, breathes every unspeakable parting word into the skin there, says a tactile goodbye to this gorgeous golden storm of a girl. </p><p>And then Blake is pushing through the crowd, sweeping out the door, running down the sidewalk like she’s made of the wind, disappearing into the lights like she’s part of the city itself. </p><p>// </p><p>It’s past one in the morning but the streets are still full, full of people and light and laughter and bursts of conversations that aren’t meant for anyone else. Blake pushes along the sidewalk, hands shaking, chest aching. </p><p>She wonders what the fuck she’s doing. How the fuck she even got here. </p><p>There’s a line of cabs along the sidewalk, but she ignores them all; she wants to move under her own power, wants to walk until her legs fall off, wants to feel some kind of control on a night where she’s already felt powerless too many times. </p><p>Blake had thought she knew what helplessness felt like, but being in Yang’s presence was an entirely different kind. It wasn’t uncertainty and the weight of crushing fear, wasn’t the clench of a fist or bright red hair - it was Blake’s heart opening like an unlocked door, high on euphoria, every cell in her body burning up like a forest fire. It was belonging to someone she didn’t even know yet. It was belonging to someone she knew even before she met, someone who felt like something out of a past life. </p><p>When she touches her neck, she can still feel the imprint of Yang’s mouth on there, branded into her. Yang’s jacket is still around her shoulders, pushing away the chill of the night. Yang’s voice still echoes in her ears, ringing like a bell. </p><p>Yang is everywhere, and Blake is terrified of how much it makes her feel. </p><p>Everyone else on the street is walking with someone, walking to somewhere. Blake has nobody and nowhere to go, and the lights of the city are blinding rather than illuminating. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she vaguely thinks that she’d like to go home. </p><p>It rips the breath right out of her lungs when she thinks of <em> home </em> and it’s a cocky smile and a leather jacket and desperate hands in the back of a darkened club instead of the apartment she shares with Weiss. </p><p><em> Enough thinking </em>, Blake says to herself. </p><p>She walks ten blocks, fifteen. The night wraps around her like it’s warning her away from something, or pushing her towards something. </p><p>“This is stupid,” she says out loud. “I should just go home, right?” </p><p>“Oh, I don’t know about that,” says a voice to her left.</p><p>Blake whirls around, shoulders tightening instinctively, then relaxes as she spots the woman sitting behind the counter of a convenience stand. They run all night in Atlas, staying open even after the last bars close and the last people stumble home. </p><p>“What do you mean?” Blake says. </p><p>“Well,” the woman says, leaning forward on her elbows, “I’ve been living in the city for twenty years, and sometimes, on some nights, it feels like the streets are asking a question. Sometimes you can’t go home until you get the answer.” </p><p>Blake bites down on her lip. The answer to an unknown question is flashing gold and lilac in her mind, and she pushes it away. </p><p>“There’s no question,” she says, and hands over Weiss’s card to pay for a bottle of water.</p><p>//</p><p>Blake keeps walking. The streets flash by her in a blur - Haven and 39th, Grimm and 42nd, on and on. Words keep surging in her throat, sentences rising like high tides, and then she realizes that there’s no one to talk to, and she swallows them down again. </p><p>She wraps Yang’s jacket tighter around herself and tries not to feel pathetic. Tries not to miss Yang. </p><p>It’s funny, Blake thinks detachedly, because Adam is here somewhere in this city, right within striking distance, and all she can think about is making her way through this mess of streets and cars and lights until she finds herself back at Yang’s side. There’s something hidden in that; a meaning, a metaphor, a message shrouded in red strings that Blake doesn’t want to untangle. </p><p>She finishes her bottle of water, tosses it in a nearby trash can without looking. Then she pulls out her phone and dials Weiss’s number, praying that she’s not asleep. </p><p>The line rings twice before it’s picked up, and Blake is surprised at how rough her voice sounds, how shattered, when she manages to say, “Weiss? Are you there?” </p><p>“Hey,” says a vaguely familiar voice, soft and warm and quiet, a song on low volume. “Sorry, it’s Pyrrha. Weiss is sleeping.” </p><p>Blake manages to smile a little. “And you’re there with her, huh?” </p><p>“She asked me to stay,” Pyrrha says, hesitant but not guilty. “We didn’t - it wasn’t like that.” </p><p>“No, no,” Blake says. “It’s good. You’ll be good for her, I think.” </p><p>“Maybe,” Pyrrha replies. “It’s only been one night.” </p><p><em> One night is plenty, </em> Blake wants to say, thinking of cheap black lighters and courtyards lit with handfuls of fire. </p><p>“Anyways,” Pyrrha continues, “do you need something? Weiss is passed out, but maybe I could help?” There’s a pause. “Wait, are you with Yang still?” </p><p>“No,” Blake says, and it’s almost a whisper. “I - it didn’t work out - I don’t know. I did something stupid and ran away and now I’m walking around midtown with no idea what I’m supposed to do next.” </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Pyrrha says, and the unbearable gentleness in her voice makes Blake want to cry. “Why didn’t it work?” </p><p>“Me,” Blake says. “My fault. My closet, my skeletons, my stupidity.” </p><p>Silence on the line. Sirens in the street. Pyrrha isn’t speaking, but Blake can tell she’s listening. </p><p>“The funny thing is,” Blake says, “I thought we were really going to make it. It felt right. We felt right....” She stops walking, leans against a streetlamp, lets the pale orange glow cascade down on her. “She felt right.” </p><p>“And then?” Pyrrha asks. </p><p>“And then,” Blake says, “it was too much.” </p><p>Pyrrha’s quiet for a moment, then she asks, “Do you believe in destiny?” </p><p>“No,” Blake says, hearing the whisper of her earlier conversation with Yang echo through the phone. </p><p>“I do,” Pyrrha says. “I don’t think that it determines every part of our lives, or anything like that. But I do believe there are certain things that are just supposed to happen, and certain people that we’re just supposed to meet.” </p><p>“Is Weiss one of those people for you?” Blake asks. </p><p>Pyrrha pauses. “This is about you, not me.” </p><p>“But is she?” Blake presses.</p><p>“I think so,” Pyrrha admits. “Was Yang like that for you?” </p><p>“No,” Blake breathes out. “I don’t think so, anyway. It didn’t feel like we were supposed to meet.” She thinks of Yang’s smile, her steady hands, her electric, golden feel. Thinks of how she wanted to laugh at Yang’s jokes even before she heard the punchline, how Yang’s lips on hers felt like planets colliding, how every moment they spent together felt breathtakingly familiar. “It feels more like we already had.” </p><p>Pyrrha starts to say something, but it’s lost in the sound of an unfamiliar ringtone - the chorus of <em> Runaway Cyclone </em>. It drags her right back to the dark crimson hallway of Epiphany, but she pushes her hand into her pocket to find Yang’s phone ringing, an unknown number flashing across the screen. </p><p>Blake lets Pyrrha's call drop and picks up Yang’s instead. </p><p>“Hello?” she says, and in the space between the question and the answer, it feels like coming home.</p><p>“Hey,” Yang’s voice says, and the single word is enough to make Blake weak. </p><p>“Hi,” Blake says, because she doesn’t know what else to do. She’s alone in the middle of the city at two in the morning, and she’s talking to a girl more brilliant than an exploded star, and she doesn’t want to run away again. </p><p>She wants to run <em> towards </em>. She wants to hold the sun, even if it blinds her. </p><p>“Have you seen a pretty girl with dark hair and golden eyes, by any chance?” Yang asks. “She’s the most amazing person I’ve ever met, and I completely fucked it up by upsetting her and making her leave, but I’d like a second chance if she’d let me have it.” </p><p>“I think she’d let you,” Blake says. “I think she’d let you have a hundred more chances.” </p><p>Yang laughs quietly, and the sound is pure relief - a deep inhale, an unclenched jaw, the first breath after breaking the surface of the water. “Where are you?” </p><p>“I don’t know,” Blake says, looking around. She’s standing at the bottom of a staircase, the metal steps sweeping upwards into the night. “Wait, I do. I’m at the Fly Line.” </p><p>“No, you’re not,” Yang says. “You can’t be.” </p><p>“I am,” Blake assures her. “Why can’t I be here?” </p><p>Yang’s voice spills out of the phone like Blake’s favorite song on the radio, one octave below infinity. “Because,” she says, “<em> I’m </em> here.” </p><p>//</p><p>The Fly Line is lit with strings of yellow lights, glowing softer than the neon shine of the city. Blake walks up the steps and slowly makes her way along the path, carved out of what was once a landing strip for the smallest Atlas aircraft. The Line is raised above the streets, poised between the sidewalks and the skyscrapers, and Blake feels like she’s walking on the boundary between worlds. </p><p>She slows her step, looks out over the street below. There’s a crowd of people streaming up and down it, laughing and joking, but it feels like they’re a million miles away, sound muted by depth and distance.</p><p>Blake rounds the corner, and she feels Yang in her bones before she even sees her. It’s a hum of familiarity, a slow burn, a key turning in the lock of a home.</p><p>Yang is sitting on a bench below a small tree, branches bending down around her like they’re growing from her light. Blake looks at Yang and imagines an entire garden blooming around her, flowers turned towards the sun of her smile. </p><p>Blake’s steps are silent, but Yang looks up anyways. Their eyes meet, lilac against amber, two sparks flying at the touch of a match. </p><p>Five feet away from the bench, Blake stops short.</p><p>“Hey,” Yang says. </p><p>“Hey,” Blake breathes out.  In her mind, she’s already running into Yang’s arms. In her mind, her heart is breaking free from her ribcage and climbing into Yang’s instead. </p><p>“I - ” Yang begins, looking nervous for the first time. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I didn’t want to scare you...” She taps her hand against her jeans, anxiety spreading from her fingertips. “I promise I usually don’t come on this strong.” </p><p>“It’s okay,” Blake says. “Yang, it’s okay. You didn’t do anything I didn’t want you to.” </p><p>Lilac flashes bright with hope; Yang’s expression says that Blake is everything she wants to be able to believe. An unspoken question hangs in the air between them. </p><p>“Kind of crazy that we’re both here,” Blake continues, to avoid answering. She’s not ready, not quite yet. “It’s like we found each other without even trying.” </p><p>She doesn’t say it, and Yang doesn’t either, but they both know what goes unsaid, what falls between the cracks: <em> maybe we were supposed to.  </em></p><p>Yang leans forward, galaxies shining in her eyes, a multitude of past lives sliding through her upturned palms. Years and stars, all of it burning through the night and kicking fire into Blake’s chest as Yang looks at her like she’s the only other person on earth. </p><p>“Blake,” Yang says. “I have to say something. Even if it’s too much, even if it’s too scary, even if it makes you run away again.” </p><p>I won’t, Blake’s heart says. </p><p>“Okay,” her mouth says. </p><p>“I know you,” Yang says. “Not your favorite color, not your birthday, not your middle name, but I <em> know </em> you. In this lifetime, in twenty others. I could find you in the silence, in the darkness, from a thousand miles away.” </p><p>Blake feels the galaxy tilt sideways, planets shifting into alignment. The space between them becomes an eclipse. Yang’s words settle throughout her body, sink into her bones, ring true like she’s heard them before. Maybe she has.</p><p>“I talked to Pyrrha,” she says simply. </p><p>“Did she ask if you believed in destiny?” Yang says, not missing a beat, the melody of their conversation perfectly aligned with the rhythm of Blake’s heart. </p><p>Blake nods. “Yeah.”</p><p>“And what did you say?” </p><p>Blake looks at the distance between her and Yang; five feet, an ocean, a solar system. Liminal space. The moment between inhaling and exhaling. </p><p>She looks inside herself, and for the first time in twelve months, she doesn’t find Adam in the shadows. Yang is there now, light pushing out the dark, and she looks nothing like a weapon or a funeral. Blake reaches out to shatter the walls of fear that surround her heart, and the shards melt and blow away like dust in the wind.</p><p>She steps forwards until they’re both over the threshold, nothing between them but a breath, a chord, a spark. Yang feels like a comet falling to Blake’s earth, brilliant and inevitable. </p><p>“I don’t believe in destiny,” Blake says, her hand dropping to rest on Yang’s, their fingers tangling together like knots in golden thread. “I believe in you.” </p><p>Yang doesn’t say anything in return. Instead she lets Blake pull her to her feet, stands just close enough to touch, and that’s a response all by itself.</p><p>//</p><p>“Are you hungry?” Yang asks, once they’re back on the streets and walking across Atlas Avenue. There are still people passing, still snatches of conversation blowing past with the breeze, but Blake doesn’t care about that anymore. The only conversation that matters to her now is the one between her and Yang, one that switches between speech and touch with a flawless ease, one that feels as natural as breathing, built into her circadian rhythm. </p><p>“I could eat,” Blake concedes. “What about you?” </p><p>There’s a joke here somewhere, but Yang doesn’t make it. She just wraps an arm around Blake’s shoulders and grins at her. </p><p>“Starving,” she says. “I know the perfect place.” </p><p>//</p><p>Yang takes her to an all-night diner on Mistral Boulevard, in the section of Midtown known as The Lakes. Blake has never quite understood why it’s called that, but now, sitting in a booth by the window and watching Yang pour too much creamer into her coffee, she thinks she does.</p><p>(Because she’s already slipping under the water’s surface; another second, another wave, Yang looks up and catches her gaze with a blink of soft lilac, and Blake really could drown here.)</p><p>The waitress brings them plates of pancakes and hash browns and avocado toast and pieces of French silk pie. Blake pushes aside everything else and goes straight for the pie. </p><p>“Oh my god,” she says, pushing the first bite into her mouth and letting her eyes flutter shut. “That’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.” </p><p>Yang laughs over the top of her coffee mug. “You’ve got a sweet tooth, huh?” </p><p>“That obvious?” Blake says, taking another bite. “Jesus Christ. This is amazing.” </p><p>“We can ask the kitchen for a full pie instead of just a slice, if you want,” Yang offers. There’s a silent laugh sparkling in her eyes, dancing at the corners of her mouth. Blake pauses, temptation rising in her, but lets it pass. </p><p>“No, that’s a terrible idea,” she says regretfully. “I’d be on a sugar high for the next two days.” </p><p>“We’ll skip it, then,” Yang replies. “Believe me, I’ve seen Ruby on enough of those to last my entire life.” </p><p>Blake takes a sip of coffee. “I only met her for about a minute, but she did seem kind of...wired.” </p><p>“That’s putting it mildly,” Yang says. “One time last semester, she bought out the bakery section at the grocery store - like, every single pastry they had to offer - and then brought it home and ate it all in one night. I found her in our living room at three am, playing Super Smash Bros while bouncing around on our mini trampoline.” </p><p>Blake laughs delightedly. “You have a mini trampoline?” </p><p>“Ruby’s idea. I swear, half the stuff in our apartment is just there because she saw it at Target and decided it was a good idea. Dumbass.” </p><p>Yang’s insult is belied by the flicker of fondness in her eyes as she speaks about her sister, the note of affection hanging behind her words. Blake can tell that Ruby means a lot to her, and it just makes her like Yang even more. </p><p>“You guys are really close, huh?” she asks. </p><p>“Yeah,” Yang says, and now her face is slightly clouded over. “I’ve been taking care of her basically since she was two.” She doesn’t say anything more, and Blake doesn’t press; she directs the conversation to steer around the moment like a rock in the middle of a stream. </p><p>“How did you guys start the band?” </p><p>It’s a better question, an easier one, and the set of Yang’s shoulders relaxes a little. “It began as a joke, actually,” she says. “Pyrrha is one of our best friends from back home in Patch, and we’ve been friends since we were like, six. There was this one year that we all got toy instruments for Christmas - my dad got me a guitar and Ruby a karaoke machine, and Pyrrha ended up with a mini drum set somehow - and our parents would joke like, <em> oh, you’ve got a little band going here. </em>And then we hit high school and Ruby talked us into joining the talent show, and…” Yang grins. “The rest is history.” </p><p>“They should do a documentary on your rise to fame,” Blake says. “You know...<em> from Patch to Atlas: the story of how three girls brought their instruments and a dream to the biggest city in Remnant… </em>” </p><p>“Shut up,” Yang says, but she’s smirking. </p><p>“I’m serious, though,” Blake says. “You guys are really, really good.” </p><p>“Thanks,” Yang says. “Yeah, we’re not counting on becoming world famous or anything, but we’re kind of hoping to make it big someday. Bigger, anyways.” </p><p>“For the fame?” </p><p>“Obviously. <em> And </em> the groupies.” </p><p>They both laugh. Yang reaches for the coffee pot and pours Blake a refill, dumping in two containers of creamer and a packet of sugar like she’s been doing it her entire life. Blake watches the sugar fall into the hot liquid like sand slipping through an hourglass, disintegrating more sweetly than the passage of time ever has. </p><p>“Really, though,” Yang says, her voice softer now. Blake thinks of italicized notations on sheet music, beneath the notes: <em> sotto voce. </em> “I think it would be cool to be a big-time band. Not for the fame, or the fans, or any of that.  Just because...music is all about the message for me, you know? And I want to share that message with as many people as I can. I want to give the world my truths, even the messy ones, even the ones that hurt so much they feel like open wounds. I want to throw everything into the wind and wait for something to blow back to me.” </p><p>Yang is leaning forward slightly, eyes bright, face open and honest in a way that Blake has never seen in any cracked mirror. Blake feels the words burn to life in her chest, everything that Yang just said lighting up her bones like a forest fire, heart speeding like a gas pedal pressed to the floor. </p><p>“I don’t know,” Yang says. “Maybe that’s cheesy, or something, but…” </p><p>“No,” Blake says, finally finding her voice. “<em> No </em>. Yang, that’s - that’s everything.” </p><p>You’re everything, she adds, but doesn’t say it out loud. </p><p>Yang nods slowly, and the look on her face is so intense that it’s like looking directly into the sun. Blake doesn’t have any words to describe the knot of emotions tangling inside her right now, and she wants so badly to lean across the table and kiss them right into Yang’s mouth, but she settles for resting her hand on top of Yang’s, fingers lacing together on top of the table.</p><p>“Good to know,” Yang says, her expression sliding back into a gentle smile, “that I’ll have at least one groupie if I ever make it big.” She nods to Blake, tips her coffee mug upwards. Blake picks up her own mug with her free hand, knocks them together in a toast. </p><p>“Please,” Blake scoffs, once they set the mugs down again. “Me, your groupie? More like I’d be your manager.” </p><p>“Maybe,” Yang allows. “Who’s to say you couldn’t do both? Multitasking exists, you know.” She grins, then waves to the waitress. “Another slice of pie for my manager, please.” </p><p>“Yang,” Blake says, no real admonishment behind it.</p><p>“What,” Yang says innocently. “I could tell that you wanted it.” </p><p>I want a lot of things right now, Blake thinks, looking across at Yang in the three am light of the diner and knowing that she’s never seen anyone so beautiful before in her life, but she doesn’t say it. Yang smiles like she already knows. </p><p>“Here,” Yang says, sliding around until she’s sitting on the same side of the booth. Blake inhales sharply at the closeness, breath shaking like earthquake tremors, and Yang pushes something into her jacket pocket. “This is for you.” </p><p>“What is it?” Blake asks, curious. It feels like a folded square of paper, but Yang catches her wrist as she goes to pull it out again. </p><p>“Don’t look yet,” Yang says, a blush painting across her cheeks like pink clouds at sunrise. “Wait till I’m not around, or something. I just - it’s for you. That’s all.” </p><p>“Okay,” Blake says, and even after Yang lets go of her arm, she doesn’t go to fish the paper out of her pocket. Instead she lets it linger as something unknown, and as light as it is, it feels like the weight of a promise in her jacket.</p><p>//</p><p>“What now?” Blake asks once they leave the diner, the bill paid by Weiss’s card. It’s almost four in the morning, but she’s never been less tired in her life. </p><p>“Are you done yet?” Yang asks, studying her carefully. “It’s kind of late…” </p><p>“No,” Blake says emphatically. “I mean, not unless you are.” </p><p>“Blake Belladonna,” Yang says, “I would walk these streets until tomorrow afternoon if it meant that I got to spend more time with you.” </p><p>Blake looks at Yang’s expression, open and earnest and beautifully honest, and can’t contain herself any longer; she knots her hands in the front of Yang’s shirt and pulls her close enough to press a kiss against her cheek. There’s nothing heated about it, no lust running beneath the surface, but somehow it feels even more meaningful than every kiss in the back hall of Epiphany. </p><p>“Good,” Blake says, and Yang pulls her close, smiling against the top of her head. “So I’m not the only one thinking that way.” </p><p>//</p><p>They end up riding the subway for a couple blocks, doing it more for a change of scenery than because they need to rest. The car is mostly empty, only a few other people scattered around it. An old woman in the corner with turquoise glasses and a pair of knitting needles waves to Blake, and Blake waves back without knowing why.</p><p>Yang finds them a pair of seats near the door, slides in first and lets Blake take the aisle, rests her arm against the back of Blake’s seat with a familiar ease.</p><p>“You have nice manners,” Blake says, mouth quirking at the irony of the statement, thinking of a red-lit hallway earlier that night and Yang’s <em> manners </em> showing themselves as an open mouth against the column of her throat.</p><p>“Thanks,” Yang says, winking like she knows exactly what’s on Blake’s mind. “My dad would be happy to hear you say that.” </p><p>“Does he still live back on Patch?” Blake asks. She’s heard about the island off the coast of Vale, but she’s never visited. “What’s it like there?” </p><p>“Small,” Yang answers. “I’m pretty sure there’s about five hundred people living there. Total.” She laughs quietly. “It’s kind of nice, though, in a way. There’s a sense of community, you know?” </p><p>Blake thinks of the house she grew up in, of the marble steps and high ceilings, grander than anywhere else in town. She thinks of the slight but definite rift that always seemed to hover between her and the other kids at school, the marginal distance established between her and what seemed like the world until she’d met Adam. </p><p>He’d closed the distance and then split it wide open again, and there was never a sense of community or any kind of closeness that wasn’t a threat instead of an intimacy. Nothing about Menagerie had ever seemed much like home to her. </p><p>“No,” she says slowly. “I don’t know. Not really. My hometown...it’s not really like that.” </p><p>“Oh?” Yang says, head tipped in curiosity. “Where are you from?” </p><p>“Menagerie,” Blake says, the word sparking bittersweet memories beneath her eyelids.</p><p>“Oh, so you’re from the south,” Yang says. “Used to unreasonably warm temperatures, huh? No wonder you stole my jacket.” </p><p> “Did not,” Blake says. “You gave it to me.” </p><p>Yang waves this away with a quick movement of her hand. “Semantics. What’s Menagerie like?” </p><p>“Hot,” Blake admits. “Kind of quiet…” She trails off, thinking of the miles of silence in her house, the harsh notes of sixteen-year-old anger ringing from the empty walls. Regret and guilt pushes down on her, anchors sinking to the bottom of the sea. “I don’t have that many good memories of it, to be honest.” </p><p>Yang hums thoughtfully, runs a hand lightly through Blake’s hair, and Blake lets herself lean into the touch. </p><p>“Is there anything you miss about it?” Yang asks quietly. </p><p>“My parents,” Blake says slowly. “And not much else. I was so glad to get out of there, to come here for college.” </p><p>“That’s good,” Yang says, her hand still threading in Blake’s hair. The touch is gentle and calming, and Blake finds herself thinking of ocean waves on a calm day.</p><p>“I miss the beach,” she says. “We lived near the water, and I used to go there almost every day…” She shrugs. “That's the only complaint I have about this city. There’s nowhere to swim unless you count the harbor, and that’s probably like swimming in toxic waste.” </p><p>“You want to swim?” Yang asks. “Say less. We’re getting off at the next stop.” </p><p>Blake raises her eyebrows. “What, is there a secret ocean somewhere in Atlas that I’m not aware of?” </p><p>“Even better,” Yang says, “but I’m not giving you any hints. I want this to be a surprise.” </p><p>//</p><p>The subway stops at Beacon and 42nd, and Yang takes Blake’s hand and leads her off the train and up the steps until they’re back on the street level. Blake blinks at the shift, leans her head back to regain her bearings as buildings tip in and out of her vision like trees blowing in the wind.</p><p>“What are we doing at Beacon Square?” she asks, because it’s the biggest, most famous tourist trap destination in all of Atlas. “Bit of souvenir shopping? Are you going to buy me an I Heart Atlas shirt?” </p><p>“Idiot,” Yang says affectionately, her hand still in Blake’s. Blake can feel her there, the simple touch spreading warmth through her entire body, lava flowing under the planet’s surface. “You’ll see.” </p><p>Beacon Square is full of people, even at this time of night; there’s a mess of pre-dawn shoppers and night owl tourists and lazy skateboarders passing through the area, falling in and out of the bars on the far side, laughing and shouting under the fluorescent lights. It’s loud and bright and full of life, yet somehow veiled by the haziness of four a.m. Blake looks at Yang and thinks that even here, even surrounded by everyone and everything, it somehow feels like they’re the only two people on earth.</p><p>Yang nudges her, pulls her towards the brightly lit marquee of Atlesia. Blake stares up at the famous five-star hotel, dazzled by the golden aura surrounding it. “Come on.” </p><p>“Really,” Blake says doubtfully, falling in step with Yang nonetheless. “You think they’ll just let us in?”</p><p>“Of course they will,” Yang says, confidence rising low in her voice, a riptide sweeping out to sea. “Follow my lead.” </p><p> Yang holds open the door to let Blake in and steps over the threshold after her, raising her head proudly and striding towards the elevators without a moment of hesitation. Blake follows her lead, and they breeze past the concierge like he’s not even there. When Blake glances at him, he’s nodding respectfully to Yang. </p><p>Blake looks at Yang, perfectly composed, and is reminded of her first meeting with Yang, earlier at Mirrorball. Yang is surrounded by the same realm of invulnerability, confidence shining from her like the rays of the sun. As Blake watches, the earth stops spinning and holds its breath, waits to let Yang pass.</p><p>“How did you do that?” Blake asks, once they’re in the elevator. “There’s no way he thinks we’re actually staying here.” </p><p>Yang just shrugs. “As long as you act like you belong, it doesn’t really matter what you look like. Also, it's like four in the morning. He couldn't give a shit.” </p><p>Yes, Blake thinks, but it’s more than that. Yang looks like she’d belong anywhere, like she could make any space a home. Like every place in the world is just waiting for her to visit and claim it as her own.</p><p>Yang reaches for the button panel, presses the one for the roof. Blake rocks back slightly as the elevator starts to move, and they’re rising like the surge of emotion in her chest.</p><p>“Hey,” Yang says, and then there’s a hand on her back, steadying her. “You alright?” </p><p>“Yeah,” Blake says. “Just…” She looks around, slightly disoriented. The mirrored walls of the elevator surround them with versions of themselves, and Blake tilts her head to look at the infinite Yangs reflected all around her. </p><p>It’s fitting, she thinks, because if anything, Yang feels beautifully infinite. </p><p>“You’re going to love this,” Yang says, as the elevator slides to a halt. “At least, I hope so.” </p><p>Blake has some witty remark halfway to her lips as they step out onto the roof, but it fades into nothing when she sees what’s in front of her. </p><p>The space before them is covered by a tall, clear dome, the sides flashing a soft golden from the lights of neighboring buildings. A swimming pool stretches out to the very edge of the roof, falling off the edge into forever, the water glowing an ethereal green from the lamps set in the walls. </p><p>“Pretty neat, huh?” Yang says, a smile tracing across her face. “They have it open during the summer, but the roof goes up as soon as it gets a little cold.” </p><p>Blake shrugs Yang’s jacket off her shoulders, folds it neatly, lays it down on the tile next to the pool. She takes off her shirt next, kicks out of her jeans, sheds layers of clothing until she’s in nothing but her bra and underwear. </p><p>And it’s strange, but even with Yang’s eyes on her, she doesn’t feel anything close to vulnerable. She feels comfortable, like they’ve been just here before, like this night and maybe her entire life has been leading towards this. </p><p>“Blake,” Yang says, lilac flashing darker, shades of lavender eclipsed. “I - Are you sure - ” She licks her bottom lip, a quick movement of her tongue that has Blake shivering. </p><p>“What’s this?” Blake asks, smirking at her. “Yang Xiao Long, lost for words?” </p><p>“Kind of hard not to be, when you’re looking like that,” Yang says breathlessly. “Jesus. Fuck. Just let me - ” </p><p>She strips, clothes dropping in a messy heap next to Blake’s, and now Blake is the one staring. Yang is a Greek statue, a Renaissance painting come to life, all soft lines and curves and pastel magic. Every bright and lovely thing on earth falls into shadow beneath Yang’s steps.</p><p>“Well,” Yang says, eyes dragging slowly over Blake, her gaze heated but not burning. “Shall we?” </p><p>Blake winks at her and jumps in.</p><p>The water is warm around her, sliding against her body like an embrace. She ducks under the surface and comes up just in time to see Yang dive in without a single splash, as if some otherworldly force set her down gently in the pool. </p><p>“God, this is nice,”  Blake says, splashing at the water. She inhales deeply; it smells like warmth and clean water, but there’s no hint of any chemicals. “Is there even any chlorine in here?” </p><p>“No,” Yang answers, stroking over to her with beautifully smooth movements. “It’s all spring water. See where it falls off the edge? There’s some kind of cleaning process for the water, and it just keeps cycling through. Pyrrha told me about it. She stayed here on vacation once, when she was a kid.” </p><p>Blake raises an eyebrow. “She stayed here? Is she rich?” </p><p>“Majorly rich,” Yang says. “Her family is loaded. They own the Fire Flakes cereal company.” </p><p>“Man,” Blake says. “She and Weiss will be perfect together. Weiss’s dad is CEO of the Schnee broadcasting corporation.” </p><p>Yang’s mouth falls open. “Are you serious?” </p><p>Blake nods. “She hates being associated, though. I’m secretly hoping that she says screw it to her family and ends up becoming an artist or something.” </p><p>Yang laughs, and the sound of it surrounds Blake like the pool, like the night Blake’s eyes flick to Yang’s chest, which is just barely covered by the darkness of the water.</p><p>Yang is hidden beneath the surface, but Blake is ready to see how long she can hold her breath.</p><p>“Enough about our friends,” Blake says, pushing forwards, a wake spreading behind her. “I want to talk about you.” </p><p>Yang’s smile is a crescent moon, curved and brilliant. “What do you want to know, baby?” </p><p>Blake pushes her up against the side of the pool, ripples spreading out around them. She thinks of a stone skipping across the water, the moment of flight just before it sinks. Yang’s skin is soft under her hands, and Blake slides one finger along the line of her jaw, following the drops of water that hang there like stars in the late-night sky. “Everything.” </p><p>“Sounds fair,” Yang says. “But I have to tell you, I do already know one thing about you.” She flips them around with one swift movement, and suddenly Blake is the one pressed against the wall. Yang leans in, her voice dangerously soft, silk with a sharpened edge. “You are <em> way </em> too much of a bottom to be pushing <em> me </em> against a wall.” </p><p>Blake’s protest dies in her throat when Yang’s mouth brushes against the shell of her ear, and Yang laughs, quiet and low, like a subtle bassline. “Knew it.” </p><p>“Shut up,” Blake manages to say, and Yang just laughs again. She’s so close and Blake is so lost in her, in the wet golden strands falling around her shoulders, in the perfect smoothness of her skin. Yang contains more art than any museum in the world, and Blake could spend the rest of her life wandering through the exhibits.</p><p>“I’m not wrong, am I,” Yang says, and both of them already know the answer, so Blake doesn’t respond. She just leans forward, wanting Yang even closer.</p><p>Yang’s hands settle at her hips, their faces impossibly close, their bodies meeting like hands in prayer. Blake licks her bottom lip subconsciously, but Yang doesn’t close the last bit of distance, doesn’t try to kiss her. Blake burned that bridge earlier, knows that every broken stone and shattered pillar is hers to restore.</p><p>She leans forward and rebuilds it with the press of her lips against Yang’s. </p><p>It’s even better than it was back in the club. This time, there’s no fear and no desperation, no wave of panic crashing like a tsunami inside Blake’s chest. There’s only this - Yang’s hands in her hair, needy but careful; Yang’s lips on hers, hot and soft; Yang, perfect and safe and everything that Blake has ever wanted. </p><p>Yang bites down on Blake’s lip. Blake whines into her mouth, and this is the real epiphany, right here between them. She slides her hand along the inside of Yang’s thigh, draws circles against skin softer than satin. </p><p>After a beat, Yang pulls back, but she doesn’t go anywhere. She just looks at Blake, her eyes a gentle lilac, and then kisses her again. It’s softer, sweeter, and Blake recognizes it for what it is; a pause, but not an ending. A delay, but not a rejection.</p><p>“Not now?” Blake says, and the words somehow don’t crush her with embarrassment.</p><p>“Not here,” Yang says, and her smile carries the promise of a day not too far in the future. </p><p>“Another day, then,” Blake says, leaning forward to kiss the corner of her mouth. “I’m worth waiting for, I promise.” </p><p>“I know that,” Yang says fondly, running her hand through Blake’s wet tangles of hair. “I’ve known that from the moment I met you.” </p><p>The words fill the space between them, fill Blake’s lungs like clean air. She’s inhaling for what feels like the first time in a year, and there’s no smoke clouding the skies now, no harsh gales or stifling winds. The sky is gold instead of red, and Blake has room to breathe.</p><p>Yang stretches, arms raised over her head, and Blake’s eyes are drawn to the movement. She bites her lip.</p><p>“Fair warning,” she says. “This may not be going any further right now, but I’m still going to stare at you like you’re something on the wall of the Louvre.” </p><p>“Well, that goes without saying,” Yang smirks. “Plus, I was already doing that to you. It’s only right that this should be a two-way street.” </p><p>//</p><p>“I don’t think I ever said I was sorry,” Blake says later, once they’re dry and dressed again, Yang’s jacket still around Blake’s shoulders. From where they’re sitting, Blake can lean forward and see all the way down to the ground. It makes her head spin, colored lights blurring across her vision as she looks out and thinks about falling.</p><p>Yang tilts her head slightly. “Sorry for what?” </p><p>“For running off on you,” Blake says. “Earlier, at the club.” </p><p>“You don’t have to apologize,” Yang says, her expression soft. “You don’t have to explain, either. It’s okay.” </p><p>Blake swallows hard, and for once, the truth forces its way up her throat anyways. </p><p>“No,” she says. “I think I want to...I want to try, at least.” She pulls Yang’s jacket tighter around herself, fiddles with the zipper. The cold touch of the metal helps focus her. Yang doesn’t say anything, just nods and waits. </p><p>“I had this boyfriend, back in high school,” Blake says slowly. “Back in Menagerie. His name was Adam Taurus.” Burning red pushes behind her eyelids when she says his name, but she blinks it away to find velvet lilac in front of her, Yang’s eyes locked onto hers. It’s an invitation, a reassurance. Blake takes a breath, and continues. </p><p>“He was controlling, and manipulative, and...abusive,” she says, looking away from Yang now, because meeting her eyes while speaking about this is impossible. “He was charming at first, and I thought he was the perfect boyfriend, but it didn’t last. He began to treat me badly after about three months, and it only got worse from there. It started off small, just a raised voice or a stupid argument. I brushed it off, because I thought it would be fine. I thought that love demanded sacrifice, and I was dumb enough to think that it would all work out.” </p><p>“Blake,” Yang breathes out quietly. “That wasn’t your fault.” </p><p>“He started yelling at me,” Blake says, closing her eyes now. “Like, every day. He didn’t want me to go anywhere without him, and if I went out with my friends or even to dinner with my parents, he’d leave me threatening texts and voicemails saying I’d better not be cheating on him, or trying to blow him off. We’d get into fights, but we’d never break up, because he’d always give me fake apologies and tell me that we were meant to be.” </p><p>“<em> Blake </em>,” Yang says, more breath than word. “I’m so sorry.” </p><p>“He hit me once,” Blake recalls, raising one hand to her face, touching the spot on her cheek as it burns with phantom pain. “It was quick, and he apologized after, but he still did it. And one time, he almost forced me to…” Her voice trails off, the memories choking her like suffocating vines. “When he decided to go to college in Vacuo instead of here in Atlas with me, that was the best day of my life. I had kind of started to think that maybe I’d never be able to escape him.”</p><p>When Blake looks at her again, Yang’s jaw is clenched. There’s rage simmering in her eyes, but Blake knows that it’s not directed to her. It’s a fire made to keep her warm, not to burn her.</p><p>“I’m so sorry that you went through that,” Yang says, her eyes flashing dark lavender, a hint of red creeping in at the edges.  “If I ever see him again, I’m going to kill him. God, Blake, no one deserves that. <em> Especially </em> not you.” </p><p>Blake reaches out, traces her finger along the line of Yang’s jaw, and Yang relaxes slightly into her touch. </p><p>“It’s - ” Blake starts, but the word <em> okay </em> stops before it even starts, because that’s the biggest lie she’s ever told. “It’s been a year, and I’m getting over it now. Seeing him tonight was horrible, but it was nothing compared to how scared I used to be.” </p><p>“I should have punched him,” Yang says. “I wanted to anyway.” </p><p>“That would have been nice,” Blake admits. “But, um, being with him kind of screwed up my perception of what love should be like. In my mind, it got mixed with a bunch of other things that weren’t good. It’s hard to uncross those wires, even a year later, and earlier tonight - ” She bites down on her lip. “I got scared when I realized that I have feelings for you, because I’m not used to that ending well for me. I don’t think you would ever be anything like Adam, but - I’m scared that I’ll get hurt again.” </p><p>Yang is silent for a moment, and then she takes a deep breath. “Ruby and I don’t have the same mother,” she says. “Her mom raised us. <em> My </em> mom left when I was four.” </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Blake says, her apology mirroring Yang’s from earlier. </p><p>“She didn’t explain why, or anything,” Yang says. “She just said goodbye one day, and walked out the door. I kept waiting for her to come back - I stayed up all night - but she never did. I barely even remember that day, but I do remember how confused and scared I was.” She shakes her head quickly, like she’s brushing away the memories. “And then as I got older, I started to get mad about it. Like, how could she just leave like that? Either she didn’t know how much Dad and I loved her, or she didn’t care. And I stayed angry at her, but I also made myself a promise.” </p><p>“What was it?” Blake asks softly, watching as Yang swipes quickly at her eyes. Two tears fall to the floor, ricocheting like dropped diamonds.</p><p>“I promised myself that I’d try never to hurt anyone I loved the way she hurt me,” Yang says. “That if I truly cared about someone, I’d try never to let myself harm them at all. And you...” She looks at Blake, eyes bright and honest. “I could never hurt you, Blake.” </p><p>Blake blinks, and there are tears in her eyes. She lets them fall, and each drop is like letting go. </p><p>“I want to protect you,” Yang says softly. “I don’t want anything to happen to you, ever.” Her eyes are still wet and shining, but they’re filled with caring, and Blake knows that she’s safe.</p><p>“I want to protect you, too,” she says. </p><p>“We’ll protect each other, then,” Yang says. “Alright?” </p><p>“Alright,” Blake says, and it sounds a lot like a promise. She pushes a hand through her hair, feeling unburdened in a way that she hasn’t for many, many months. Yang’s mouth quirks up on one side, and Blake takes that as a sign to turn the conversation back towards the lighter side. “Now that we’ve gotten our trauma out of the way, what do you want to do?” </p><p>“It’s only six in the morning,” Yang says, digging her phone out of Blake’s pocket briefly to check the clock. “We’ve got time for anything you want.” </p><p>“We can figure it out as we walk,” Blake says, getting to her feet. “I just want to be with you.” The confession rolls easily off her tongue, and there’s no consequence to it; there’s only Yang standing next to her, ready to go anywhere. Blake reaches for her hand, and Yang smiles like Blake has just given her the sun.</p><p>//</p><p>The streets look cleaner at six in the morning, and the air feels lighter. There’s a sense of change hovering around them, and Blake is ready to open the doors and let it in.</p><p>Yang walks next to her, their steps matching. They’re still holding hands, and Blake makes no move to stop. </p><p>“I love this kind of light,” Yang says, gesturing towards the sky. There’s a gentle pink hue coloring the tops of the skyscrapers, the sun before the rise. “It’s almost worth getting up early for.” </p><p>“I never wake up early,” Blake admits. “I don’t start functioning until after nine in the morning.” </p><p>“Well, you’re up early now,” Yang says cheerfully. “I mean, you didn’t sleep at all, but whatever. Details.” </p><p>Blake laughs, and watches as Yang tips her head back to stare at the sky. Her face is blown open and beautiful, and she looks like a poem about new beginnings. </p><p>“I don’t know,” Blake says. “Maybe I’ll have to start getting up earlier. The views are kind of incredible.” </p><p>Yang reaches for her, grabs onto the front of her jacket, pulls her close. “Let me see your phone for a minute?” </p><p>Blake pulls it out and hands it to her, then waits as she taps around on the screen. A minute later, Blake’s pocket starts ringing. Blake drops Yang’s hand and takes a couple steps away. </p><p>“Hello?” she says, and she knows that she’s smiling like an idiot. </p><p>“Hi,” Yang says, three feet and a phone line away from her, happiness clear in her voice. “Is Blake there?” </p><p>Blake smirks. “She’s not, but I can take a message.” </p><p>“Okay, then,” Yang says. “Tell her that she’s the prettiest girl in the city, and she has my phone number now, so...hopefully she’ll call me?” </p><p>“You’re so dumb,” Blake laughs, hanging up and tapping into her contacts to save Yang’s number. “You could have just asked for my number, you know.”</p><p>Yang grins. “Yeah, but it’s more fun this way.” </p><p>They start back downtown, the streets melting away before them as they talk about music and art and photography and their favorite movies and their strangest dreams and the plot of <em> Huntresses of Beacon </em> Season Four and where to buy the best pizza in the city. Blake is exhausted now, tired down to her bones, but the sky is filling with light and Yang is next to her, and that’s more than enough to carry her along.</p><p>“Sometimes I think about all the people I pass on the street,” Blake says thoughtfully, watching as two teenage girls stumble out of a nearby coffee shop, carrying tall coffee cups, laughing and holding hands. “It’s so weird to realize that they have lives that are just as complicated as ours, you know?” </p><p>“Yeah,” Yang says. “There’s a word for that, I think.” </p><p>Blake ponders this for a moment, reaching around in her mind to see if she knows the word that Yang’s talking about, and then she looks across the street and completely loses her train of thought as she catches sight of a bright purple awning that reads <em> Baking the Midnight Oil </em> , and then, under that, <em> Atlas Insomnia Cookies.  </em></p><p>“What?” Yang asks, wondering why they’ve stopped walking, and then she follows Blake’s gaze and nods in understanding. “Oh. You want an insomnia cookie, huh?” </p><p>“No. What on earth gave you that impression?” </p><p>“Come on then,” Yang says, pulling her gently across the street. “Let’s get you some early-morning diabetes.” </p><p>The shop is tiny, and there’s barely enough room for three people to stand in line. Yang takes one look at the expression on Blake’s face, closing like a door at the idea of standing in such a tight, airless space, and reaches into her pocket for her wallet. </p><p>“You can wait out here if you want,” she says. “I’ll go in. Chocolate chip okay?” </p><p>“Thanks,” Blake says, sitting down on the bench by the front door. “And yes.” </p><p>Yang pauses in the doorway, the wood framing her perfectly. Blake briefly thinks of art museums, of paintings in colors so bold that they feel like the beginning of the universe. “You won’t leave, right?” Her voice is light enough that it’s a joke, but Blake can sense the slight fear hovering behind the words. </p><p>“I won’t,” Blake promises. “I’ll be right here.” </p><p>Yang smiles and disappears into the shop.</p><p>Blake leans back against the bench, closes her eyes. She’s so tired that she feels like sinking into the ground right where her feet land, and she sits in quiet darkness for a moment before thinking to dig into her jacket pocket.</p><p>She pulls out the square of paper that Yang had given her back at the diner, a time that feels like something from another life now. Slowly, she unfolds it.</p><p>It’s a receipt of some sort, and one side shows a grocery list in prices and numbers. Blake flips it over to find strong, slanting, slightly messy black handwriting that spells out what appear to be song lyrics. </p><p>There’s two songs, she realizes; one short, one long. She stares down at the paper, eyes scanning the first one, which seems half-finished. It’s titled<em> five minutes, a lifetime. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> don’t just leave, you’ve got my heartbeat in your hands  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> the heroes all are buried but our monument still stands  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> there’s nothing like this moment in the ash of burnt-out plans </em>
</p><p>
  <em> five minutes, infinity, you moaning beneath me </em>
</p><p>
  <em> knew right from the start i’d let you wreck me completely  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Blake feels something burn in her chest as she reads through it; something coming loose, coming to life. Yang’s crooked smile rests behind every word, the lines burning a dark shade of lavender in Blake’s mind.</p><p>She smiles, the edges curving sharply, and moves on to the next song, which is simply titled <em> revelation.  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> your hand, my sleeve </em>
</p><p>
  <em> first kiss, don’t leave </em>
</p><p>
  <em> minutes, they pass  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> you bring it back  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> you stay, we walk  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> we joke, we talk  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> like songs i wrote  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> you wear my coat  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> bright streets, fast cars </em>
</p><p>
  <em> neon, no stars </em>
</p><p>
  <em> you laugh, it feels right </em>
</p><p>
  <em> on this perfect night  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> it’s late and yet </em>
</p><p>
  <em> there’s no regret </em>
</p><p>
  <em> cold air, warm heart </em>
</p><p>
  <em> this is the start </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> i could hear you in the silence </em>
</p><p>
  <em> i could see you in the darkness  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> i could find you with my eyes closed  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> you feel like home </em>
</p><p>
  <em> you feel like home </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> is it too much </em>
</p><p>
  <em> is this too rushed </em>
</p><p>
  <em> can’t help but say  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> it anyway </em>
</p><p>
  <em> i want it all  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> your spring and your fall  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> bad winter fights  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> hot summer nights </em>
</p><p>
  <em> i’ll fight your ghosts </em>
</p><p>
  <em> i’ll hold you close  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> i know it’s hard  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> been bruised and scarred  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> but it’s worth the risk </em>
</p><p>
  <em> when it feels like this </em>
</p><p>
  <em> (feels like we’ve met) </em>
</p><p>
  <em> can i love you yet  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> i could hear you in the silence  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> i could see you in the darkness </em>
</p><p>
  <em> i could find you with my eyes closed </em>
</p><p>
  <em> you feel like home </em>
</p><p>
  <em> you feel like home </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> we’re circling city streets just going round and round  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> and i’m already in so deep i think i’ll drown now  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> you are the sun and i would gladly be your shattered moon </em>
</p><p>
  <em> and i will listen for your voice in every love tune  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> i could hear you in the silence  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> i could see you in the darkness  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> i could find you with my eyes closed  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> you feel like home </em>
</p><p>
  <em> you feel like home </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The burn in Blake’s chest turns from wildfire to candlelight, and this time, it’s not something coming to life. It’s something coming home. </p><p>“Hey,” Yang says, pushing through the door, paper bags in hand. Blake inhales deeply and catches the scent of buttery chocolate. “I got you a double chocolate chip, cause I figured that would be exactly the kind of thing you’d want. What are you - ” Her eyes flick to Blake’s hands, which are still holding the sheet of lyrics, and her face flushes. “Oh.” </p><p>“Yang,” Blake says, catching Yang’s eye, soft lilac embracing amber. “Did you write me a love song?” </p><p>Yang blushes even harder. “Not very punk rock, I know, but…yeah.” She runs a hand through her hair, then gives Blake one of the bags. “Here.” </p><p>“Perfect,” Blake says, standing and pushing the paper carefully back into her pocket. She takes the bag in one hand, and Yang’s hand in the other. “Don’t worry, I won’t ruin your reputation by telling anyone.” </p><p>Yang smiles, and Blake feels like she’s growing out of her bones, like she’s blooming into an entire garden, like she’s encompassed by a feeling that's too big for her body. She feels like she’s got hope and love and solid gold pressed between every one of her ribs. </p><p>“Thank you,” she says, and it’s a ridiculous understatement, but Yang nods like she understands every single sentiment laced between the two words. Blake leans up to kiss her on the cheek, and it’s only then that she notices the street sign on the corner. </p><p>“Hey,” she says, weaving her fingers more tightly against Yang’s. “Can we go to one more place?” </p><p>//</p><p>The sun is sliding along the horizon when they make their way back to the Fly Line, stopping at the observation bay that overlooks the river. Yang leans against the railing, lets the breeze blow through her hair and send it rippling like golden ocean waves. Blake looks up at the sky, now painted in brilliant streaks of orange and pink, and feels like she’s rising along with the sun. </p><p>It’s a resurrection, a revival, a renewal. It’s Yang, smiling at her, radiantly beautiful in all of this light. It’s Blake, no longer a locked door, handing Yang the key and letting her come home to a space inside Blake’s heart.</p><p>It’s Blake, wanting to keep Yang like nothing she’s ever wanted before in her life. </p><p>“What are you thinking about?” Yang asks, pressing her shoulder against Blake’s.</p><p>“You,” Blake says honestly. </p><p>“Yeah?” Yang says, amusement playing around her lips. “Anything you want to share?” </p><p>Yang is perfect beneath this brand-new sky, and Blake doesn’t ever want to look at anything else again. She’d thought that love looked like midnight and scarlet and bloody bruises, but it doesn’t; it looks like daylight and lilac and song lyrics scribbled on grocery store receipts. It looks like Yang.</p><p>“This isn’t a one-night thing, is it?” Blake asks, the words pouring out before she can stop them. “We won’t be over as soon as the night is, will we?” </p><p>Yang arches an eyebrow. “Do you want us to be?” </p><p>“No,” Blake says, and she means it more than she’s ever meant anything before.</p><p>“Then we won’t,” Yang says, wrapping her arm around Blake. She pushes her face into Blake’s hair, her mouth against Blake’s ear, all of her against all of Blake. “Besides, the night is already over.” </p><p>Blake thinks of the color red, and is startled to find that there’s nothing behind it anymore; a fleeting pain, a sharp sting, and then it’s fading away into the distance. </p><p>“Yeah,” she says. “It is, isn’t it.” </p><p>Yang pulls back from her slightly, just enough so that their eyes can meet. Blake falls into the warmth of lilac, and lets herself relax into a sense of peace.</p><p>“I forgot,” Blake says quietly. “I forgot that love could turn the light on instead of killing it slowly.” </p><p>For a quick moment, she’s worried that she’s said too much, that it’s too early, but Yang just smiles. </p><p>“That’s my favorite jacket,” she says. “I’ve loved it for four years. I’ve never had an item of clothing that I’ve treasured more. And now, seeing it around your shoulders, I don’t ever want it back.”</p><p>Blake runs her hand along the jacket and thinks about sewing her heart onto the sleeve. It’s not quite a fair trade, not yet. </p><p>“Here,” Blake says, reaching into her pocket. “Give me your arm.” </p><p>Yang holds out her arm, and Blake ties her black ribbon around her wrist. It fits like an unbroken promise. </p><p>“But that’s your mother’s,” Yang says hesitantly. “It’s your good luck ribbon.” </p><p>“I know,” Blake says. “You’re my luck now.” </p><p>Yang kisses her once, softly. Blake feels a whisper of forever in the meeting of their lips. </p><p>“Plus,” Blake says, once they break apart. “Now that you have it, you’ll have to be close to me at all times if you want to keep the good luck going.” </p><p>“An ulterior motive,” Yang laughs. “I should have known.” </p><p>Blake leans into her, and Yang leans back. A dozen emotions flash between them in the curve of a smile, a hundred unspoken words passing between them in the space of a breath. Blake looks at Yang, and her heart throws itself overboard without sinking; this is the first day of summer, the infinity of daylight. Yang is the golden start of something good and right and real, and Blake is done hiding from the light. </p><p>Yang’s hand slips into Blake’s, and together they watch the sun rise on a new age.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>did i base yang's song for blake on you are in love by taylor swift? i absolutely did and i regret nothing</p><p>you can find me on <a href="https://twitter.com/thymewars">twitter</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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